


the crumbs that fall

by sharkfish



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Slavery, It's a love story I swear, Knotting, M/M, Oral Sex, Physical Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 05:57:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21113822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkfish/pseuds/sharkfish
Summary: After the auction, Castiel found the omega beaten and unconscious. They had to sedate him, one of the handlers said, so Castiel and Gabe had to carry the omega to a borrowed trailer and dump him in. The omega was only semi-conscious as Castiel collared and chained him in the pen and carefully peeled the ropes away from broken, infected skin around his wrists and ankles.And then he left the omega to wait until Castiel was ready for him.





	1. GEMS

**Author's Note:**

> ***NOTE:*** heed the tags. this is set in a world where omegas are slaves of various types, considered to be worth less than even animals. there is a lot of noncon and physical abuse at the beginning (cas abusing dean), but it's eventually a fluffy love story, i swear. 
> 
> thanks to [shealynn88](http://shealynn88.tumblr.com%22), and [all-or-nothing-baby](http://all-or-nothing-baby.tumblr.com%22).
> 
> _"Even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master's table." Matthew 15:27_

It takes two days for the new alpha to show up, but when he does, Dean can smell him in full rut. 

Dean struggles to his feet as the alpha stalks towards him across the small pen Dean is chained up in. “No,” the alpha says, his voice a thunderstorm, “on your knees.” 

“Fuck you,” Dean says. 

The alpha grabs the chain connected to the pronged choke collar around Dean’s neck and jerks. Dean stumbles forward and the second jerk has him tumbling to the ground. As the alpha approaches him, he wraps the chain around his fist, pulling it taut so Dean can’t move without losing breath. Dean watches him with wide, angry eyes, balling his hands into fists. 

“Don’t even think about it,” the alpha growls. 

“Not thinkin’ anything,” Dean says, like he isn’t ready to land a good hit as soon as the alpha is close enough. 

“Hands and knees,” the alpha says, pulling at the chain tight enough that Dean’s throat starts to close. He wheezes and keeps glaring. 

It’s an awkward angle from the ground, but Dean swings at the alpha as soon as he gets close enough. He lands a hard hit on the alpha’s thigh that will bruise later, and another on his side, before the collar tightens enough to stop Dean’s harsh breathing. Dean keeps swinging, waits it out until he grows dizzy and weaker, and then his fists fall. 

“Good,” the alpha says, loosening his grip on the chain just enough for Dean to pull in a gasping breath. 

“Get the fuck away from me,” Dean pants. His vision is black around the edges. 

“Hands and knees,” the alpha repeats. 

Dean  _ won’t _ . Instead he manages to get his hands under him and shove to his feet. The sun is beating down on them, the sky so blue and full of hope, a day that would be beautiful to anyone else. Probably is to the alpha in front of him. 

The alpha is close enough to grab Dean’s wrist, his other hand still holding the chain tight. “You,” the alpha says, “are going to do what I say, or you’re not going to be happy with the outcome.” 

“Fuck you,” Dean says. 

The alpha moves fast, way faster than Dean’s emaciated body can follow, and twists Dean’s arm behind his back. Dean struggles and the alpha kicks his feet out from under him so he hits his knees in the dirt again. “If you insist,” the alpha says, pulling the collar until Dean can’t breath again. 

Dean’s free hand goes into the dirt to hold him up but his back bows, trying to release the pressure on his neck and shoulder, but the alpha just pulls tighter. 

“Are you going to cooperate?” 

“No,” Dean says, struggling in his grip. 

The alpha pulls harder on Dean’s arm and pain explodes behind Dean’s eyes. He wonders if the alpha knows this shoulder was recently dislocated in a fight, if a kill pen bothers to provide information on injuries. Probably not, but it’s pretty fucking effective all the same, Dean falling to his face on the ground. “Do you want me to stop?” the alpha says. “Do you want it to stop hurting?” 

Dean can’t breathe, his vision going to tiny pinpoints barely focused on the fence in front of him, and then he closes his eyes and accepts incoming unconsciousness. 

The choking hold on the collar suddenly lets up, long enough for Dean’s body to insist on several harsh breaths, and then pulls tight again. The prongs dig into his skin, threatening to break it, and Dean’s free hand scrabbles at the ground, trying to get the leverage to do something, anything, but he can’t breathe and his arm is screaming. 

The alpha lets go of his arm and Dean pulls it against his body, cradles it there. Dimly, from far away, he hears the hiss of a zipper and then the blunt, hot head of a dick against his hole. There’s spit, hastily rubbed against him with rough fingers, and then the alpha is shoving inside. Dean isn’t wet at all so it hurts, but it’s worse than that. Dean has never been taken like this. 

Dean tries valiantly to pull away, but all his struggling does is increase the pressure of the collar against his neck. The alpha is deep in him, thick and long, and he jerks at the collar every time Dean tries to struggle away from it. 

“Stop,” the alpha says. “Stop fighting, and I’ll let you breathe.” 

Dean’s mouth is full of dirt and his knees ache from falling to them too many times and he wants to keep fighting, he really does, can’t stand the idea of an alpha gaining  _ pleasure _ from his body, but he can feel the collar cutting into his skin until blood beads at the end of each sharp prong and each tiny gasp of air is nowhere near enough to fill his lungs and he’s just so fucking tired and his shoulder is still begging for attention and all he wants is for this to be over, so he his body goes slack as the alpha starts to fuck him. 

“There you go,” the alpha says, letting up on the collar the smallest bit. 

Dean’s body sucks in more air gratefully. He keeps his eyes closed, trying to go somewhere else,  _ anywhere _ that doesn’t involve the harsh burn of a cock inside him and the knife stabs of gasping with a broken rib. He doesn’t have a happy place, but he knows about zoning away from pain, and he finds that blank space inside him where it doesn’t matter at all. 

Castiel never should have gone to that auction. It was Gabriel’s fault, Gabe who sniffed him heading into a rut and reminded him he didn’t have an omega to help him through it, Gabe who suggested one of the kill pen auctions because “you can find some gems there, little bro.” He tells himself it’s Gabe’s fault, though the truth is that he’s never particularly in control of himself during rut. Just  _ needs.  _

And Gabe was right, Castiel did find a gem. The omega ended up going for almost nothing after he struck and kicked out at one of the handlers in the ring —even with his hands and feet hobbled by rough rope —nothing like the other omegas who shuffled into the auction ring obediently, heads down and resigned to their fates. 

“What the fuck,” Gabriel muttered under his breath when Castiel won the bidding, but Castiel just ignored him. He usually did. 

After the auction, Castiel found the omega beaten and unconscious. They had to sedate him, one of the handlers said, so Castiel and Gabe had to carry the omega to a borrowed trailer and dump him in. The omega was only semi-conscious as Castiel collared and chained him in the pen and carefully peeled the ropes away from broken, infected skin around his wrists and ankles. 

And then he left the omega to wait until Castiel was ready for him. 

It’s only hours before the alpha is back. Dean didn’t really expect any different, but he’s just so fucking tired, so there was some part of him that hoped he would have more of a reprieve. Hell, there was some part of him that wished he would just die already. 

As the gate opens, Dean climbs to his feet, holding on to the support beam of his little lean-to to help him up. The alpha’s hands are full and he approaches Dean warily, like he’s the one who has something to be afraid of. 

The alpha moves all the bottles into one hand and grabs the chain attached to Dean as he approaches. 

Dean says, “Don’t fucking touch me.” 

The alpha says, “I think you know better.” 

Dean shies away as the alpha gets closer, but it only makes the collar tighten around his neck, biting into scabbed-over puncture wounds. 

“You can call me Castiel,” the alpha says. 

“Not  _ master _ ?” Dean says, spitting out the word.

Castiel ignores the comment and says, holding out a bottle of water: “You need this.” 

Dean glances at it, licks his impossibly dry mouth, then looks back at Castiel's face. 

“Take it,” Castiel says, now nearly close enough to touch Dean. 

Dean reaches out to grab it, then retreats back as far as he can go. He twists off the cap with shaking hands, precious water splashing all over his feet, and then guzzles the rest of it in one go. 

“You’ll make yourself sick,” Castiel says, but he holds out another bottle anyway. Dean guzzles it, too. “And this, a nutrition drink.” This time it’s an opaque bottle, no label, but it’s sealed so at least Dean knows Castiel didn’t put anything in it himself. 

Surprisingly, it doesn’t taste as bad as the gruel usually fed to omegas, and Dean downs it in just a few swallows. The bottles litter the ground under the lean-to. 

“Hands and knees,” Castiel says.

“No,” Dean retorts. The water sits heavy in his belly, already threatening to come back up, and he swallows loudly. 

“I will have you regardless of your behavior,” Castiel says. “It’s up to you if it hurts or not.” 

Dean laughs harshly, and it comes out a little desperate, a little despaired. “Yeah, right,” he says, “because you’re just such a nice fucking guy.” 

Suddenly Castiel is in his face, hand pulling the chain tight enough that the collar bites into Dean’s skin again. Castiel is a couple inches shorter than Dean, but fierce, and it takes a lot for Dean not to wither under his gaze. 

“You,” Castiel says, “should show me some respect.” 

“Or what?” Dean says. 

“Or I’ll leave you to die.” 

He fucking  _ means _ it. And maybe an hour before Dean was ready to be dead, to escape this fucked up mortal coil, but faced with the real threat, he’s not ready to let go yet. If he sticks around, he might get a chance to get out of this hell, after all. 

“I’m not letting you  _ touch _ me,” Dean says, snarling right into Castiel's face. 

Before Dean realizes it —god, his reflexes are still so slow from hunger —Castiel grabs Dean’s thumb and twists it the wrong way nearly to the breaking point. Dean buckles, pressing closer to try to avoid the pressure, but Castiel doesn’t let up. 

“Hands and knees,” Castiel says, his voice low with promise.

When Dean doesn’t go immediately, Castiel yanks hard enough at the chain that Dean goes to his knees anyway, finger forgotten as he grabs at the collar, trying to relieve the pressure against his throat. Another hard pull and Dean cries out, high pitched, with the last of his breath. 

“Present for me,” Castiel says, not letting up on the collar. 

Dean shakes his head, staring up at Castiel. He refuses to be afraid, refuses to show anything but hatred in his eyes. If he were stronger, he’s pretty sure he could take this guy down, sweep his feet from under him and pummel him with fists and feet, but Dean hasn’t been strong for a long time. 

“Do it,” Castiel says, pulling on the chain until Dean goes dizzy. Dean resists, but the longer he goes without air, the harder it is to hold himself up, and he ends up face-down in the dirt again anyway. 

Castiel gives him one, two, three breaths, then pulls the choker closed again as he goes to his knees behind Dean. There’s that zipper sound again, the sound of Castiel spitting. But instead of the alpha’s cock, Dean gets a single finger, wet with saliva, sliding into him. It hurts a little, but it’s barely nothing compared to the hopeless feeling of having the breath choked out of him. 

One, two, three breaths, right when everything is about to go black, and then he’s floating again. A second wet finger joins the first, pumping and twisting in his hole. Dean is fucking horrified to realize that the touch is being eased by his own slick as he starts to get wet. 

“Hmm,” Castiel says, sounding pleased. 

“No,” Dean chokes out during his next break for breath. 

“‘No’ what? You don’t want me to fuck you?” Castiel doesn’t spit again, but the third finger goes in easy. “You might as well be begging for it.” 

“No,” Dean says, trying to squirm away. His air is cut off for longer than before, and his eyes roll backwards, and he wonders if his lips have gone blue yet. That’s what happens, isn’t it? Before you suffocate? Before you go under forever? 

Castiel lets up on the chain and Dean’s lungs scream for air, gasp for it, trying to get enough before his supply is cut off again. “You’re wet,” Castiel says, and Dean can’t pinpoint what the tone of his voice means. 

“No,” Dean rasps. “Fuck you.” 

The fingers pull out and just circle the rim of Dean’s hole, spreading slick, before he replaces his hand with his cock. Dean tries to pull away before Castiel's cock shoves into him, but Castiel grabs onto his hip and jerks him back until Dean is filled up and pressing the back of his thighs into Castiel's hip bones. 

Castiel makes a little noise, maybe of pleasure, and then starts to fuck in and out of Dean, using the chain for leverage so Dean loses breath for strokes and strokes until Castiel seems to remember himself enough to let loose. Dean is wet so it doesn’t hurt as bad, but Dean wants to puke when he feels Castiel come in hot pulses inside him. He’s just thankful that, again, Castiel doesn’t knot him. 

The third time, Castiel brings another water bottle and more liquid food. Just the same as before, he wraps the chain around his fist, pulling tighter as he approaches the lean-to in the corner where the omega is resting. The omega doesn’t dance to his feet this time, instead just staring, mouth set in a hard line. 

“Drink,” Castiel says, holding out the water bottle first. 

The omega looks away, like he’s going to refuse, but after only a moment he takes it out of Castiel's hand and drinks it all within seconds. 

“And this,” Castiel says, nudging the nutrition bottle into the omega’s hand. 

Finished, the omega glares up at him and says, “Don’t touch me.” Castiel finds himself, strangely, a little disappointed that it doesn’t sound as angry as the previous times, but he can see the omega is exhausted and there are bruises coming in around his neck from the collar. 

Castiel opens his mouth and almost says  _ I’m sorry _ , but instead schools his eyes into glaring slits and says, “What’s your name?” 

“Whatever you want it to be,” the omega says, sneering. 

Castiel pulls on the chain, just a gentle jerk, and says, “Don’t make me ask again.” 

“Or what? You already threatened to kill me, asshole.” 

“It made you do what I asked, didn’t it?” 

The omega opens his mouth as if to respond but then slams it shut. His eyes shut, too, eyelashes fanning over sun-reddened cheeks. 

Castiel takes another step forward, into the omega’s space. When he lays his hand on the omega’s shoulder, the omega jerks away, craning his neck to stare at Castiel's face again. Castiel's crotch is at the same level as the omega’s chin and the omega says, “I’ll bite your fucking dick off if you even try.” 

Castiel reaches forward and smoothes dirty hair away from the omega’s forehead. The omega jerks away again, causing the collar to pull tight. “I want your name.” 

“Fuck you.” 

Castiel shrugs, grabs the omega’s chin with bruising strength. “Then present for me, or you  _ will _ be choking on my cock.” 

The omega pulls his face out of Castiel's grip but keeps just staring upwards, not moving. Castiel stares back at him, giving a long moment for the omega to make the right decision, but nothing happens.

Frowning, Castiel grabs the chain where it attaches at the back of the omega’s neck and pulls tight, until his eyes widen and hands start to scrabble against the collar, trying to pull it loose. 

Still holding the chain tight enough to strangle, Castiel moves around behind the omega and knees him between the shoulder blades hard enough that he goes down on his hands. Castiel half-carried the thing along with Gabe just days before, but he’s still surprised at how little the omega weighs as he grabs his hips and hauls them upwards. 

“See?” Castiel says, running his hand down the omega’s spine. “You’re so pretty like this.” 

He lets the pressure on the chain up long enough for a few quick breaths, then pulls tight again. 

“And,” Castiel says, his fingers sliding his fingers between the omega’s ass cheeks, “I know exactly what I’m going to call you.” Castiel shoves two fingers in at once, no resistance at all, and chuckles darkly. “Want to guess?” 

He pulls his fingers out and reaches around to rub them along the omega’s plush parted lips. The omega is too busy suffocating to respond, so Castiel leans over his back and says quietly in his ear, “Slick, my new pet.” 

Castiel lets up on the chain, such an abrupt change in tension that Slick falls forward onto his forehead. His whole body shakes as he tries to fill his lungs again and his fingernails dig tiny trenches into the dirt but he otherwise doesn’t resist as Castiel guides his cock to Slick’s hole. He’s wet and hot and tight and Castiel can’t help himself from groaning as he bottoms out. 

Castiel keeps his hand wrapped in the chain, just in case, but he leaves it lax, his other hand pressing flat to Slick’s lower back for leverage as he starts to trust in and out. “You’re so wet,” Castiel says, like Slick doesn’t already know this about himself. “What a good pet you are.” 

“Not —your —pet,” Slick grinds out between long strokes of Castiel's cock.

“What was that?” Castiel says, pulling the collar tight but not quite cutting off air yet. “Care to repeat yourself?” 

“I’m not your fucking  _ pet _ ,” Slick spits out, and he takes advantage of Castiel's momentary distraction to wrench away, Castiel's cock coming free of his body with a wet pop. 

Pulling off of Castiel's cock means he’s suffocating again, though, and Castiel gives Slick a moment to think about that before Castiel pulls Slick back in by the hip and fucks into him. “I  _ could _ kill you, you know,” Castiel says. “You’re mine to do with as I please.” 

“Then do it. Fucking do it.” 

“I don’t think you mean that.” 

“The fuck I don’t.” 

Castiel's hand goes back to Slick’s lower back again, the knobs of Slick’s spine horrible with thin skin stretched tight as a drum over each rise and valley. Slick’s ribs mountain up under his skin, too, even from behind, like they are trying to escape the harsh confines of his body with every breath. Castiel is surprised Slick has the energy to move at all with no fat left on his body, much less fight back. 

There’s something beautiful about a fight when it’s all that’s left inside someone. 

With that thought, Castiel is overcome with orgasm, the intensity jarring. It’s not intentional, but the hand holding the chain jerks and from far away, he hears Slick choking for air. 

Castiel comes back to himself and loosens his grip immediately. Slick sags into the dirt, hitting his belly when Castiel pulls out and lets go of the bruising hold on his hip. On a whim, Castiel reaches out to stroke his fingers down the back of Slick’s head, through his dirty hair. Slick shudders under his hand. 


	2. ORANGES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re one sick fuck, you know that?” 
> 
> “Yes, I’ve begun to think so.”

After three more days, Dean holds on to two singular threads of hope: one, that Castiel hasn’t knotted him, and two, that Castiel's rut is fading. 

He’s grateful for the water, the sustenance, and every breath Castiel allows him while they are together. Dean’s throat is ringed with a thick band of black bruise, skin swollen so the prongs jab even when the collar is loose. One of his ribs is definitely broken from a beating at the auction house and he still has to cradle an arm to himself to dull the thunderous pain, so it gets harder and harder to resist when Castiel enters the enclosure and demands that Dean present. 

It’s five days of being in this new hell hole when Castiel opens the gate and the stench of rut pheromones doesn’t surround him. He picks up the slack in the chain as he approaches, but doesn’t jerk it tight. Dean went to his feet as soon as he heard the latch coming undone on the other side of the gate, but he doesn’t move away when Castiel nears him. 

“Good morning, Slick,” Castiel says, holding out one bottle and then the other. Dean doesn’t waste time downing them both, dropping the empties into a bin Castiel brought in for this purpose. 

“Hey,” Dean says, watching Castiel warily. 

“How are you today?” 

Dean blinks. “Uh, what?” 

“Your ribs are looking better. How’s the pain?” 

“Fuck you, man,” Dean says. 

Castiel tilts his head, pulls gently on the chain, more just a curious twitch of his hand than an intent to hurt, but Dean nearly goes to his knees anyway, a reflex already trained into him. “Not today,” Castiel says. “Today we take care of you. Come near the gate, please. It’s time for a bath.” 

Castiel turns his back on Dean to go to the gate. Dean could —Dean could do a lot of things. He could rush Castiel while his back is turned, take him down and hurt him, but Dean’s not sure what that would accomplish. Even if he killed Castiel, it would be a tough time to get out of this enclosure, chained by the neck to a pole set in cement. And if he didn’t kill Castiel, what kind of cruelties would come next?

Dean steps gingerly into the sun and towards the gate. By the time he gets there, Castiel has dragged in a hose and a bucket nearly overflowing with suds. 

“Arms and legs spread,” Castiel says, “so I can hose you. If you try to hurt me --”

“I won’t,” Dean says, not needing Castiel to finish the threat. 

Dean takes the requested position, even though his shoulder protests, and closes his eyes. He’s not going to watch this new master while he’s hosed down like an animal. 

Castiel is interesting, though. He doesn’t use one of the harsher sprays but a gentle one, like rainwater pattering down on Dean. Castiel moves around him, letting water run over every inch of Dean’s skin, then drops the hose and picks up a sponge out of the bucket.

“I’d let you, but you’re injured,” Castiel says, and he starts rubbing the sponge in circles over Dean’s chest. The sponge is a little scratchy but Castiel uses it gently to wipe away grime and blood. 

Castiel works down his hurt arm first, all the way down to his hand where he rubs the sponge over Dean’s palm in a tickle-touch. 

“You can drop your arm,” Castiel says. He rinses the sponge and starts on the other arm. 

It’s almost —fuck, Dean’s not even sure what the word is, but he closes his eyes as Castiel cleans him and even sighs into the touch a couple times. 

It’s only when Castiel finishes with his legs and starts on Dean’s groin that Dean opens his eyes and has to resist the urge to move away. The scent of Castiel's rut has drifted, barely a hint of it left, but that doesn’t mean much. Castiel may not be feeling the same restless need as a rut causes, but it’s been made clear what he bought Dean for in the first place, and it’s not to fucking  _ wash _ him. 

Dean opens his mouth to threaten, but before he can get the words out, Castiel has finished with his penis and is moving around to slide the sponge between Dean’s ass cheeks, his cleaning methodical like he can wipe away the things he did to Dean. 

Castiel pauses, and Dean holds his breath as a single finger follows the slippery path of the sponge and circles around his swollen hole, but that’s it before Castiel pulls away. Castiel drops the sponge in the bucket and picks up a bottle of shampoo —Dean can immediately smell the rich citrus scent of it as Castiel pops the cap, and Dean realizes it’s  _ Castiel's  _ shampoo. 

Castiel has to reach his arms over his head to massage his hands into Dean’s hair, pulling out the grease and dirt along with the tension from Dean’s shoulders with each small circle of his fingers. By the end, Dean’s head is bowed, not from shame but from a type of relaxation that goes all the way to the core soul of him. 

“You like that,” Castiel says, a smile in his voice. 

Dean wipes his eyes free of soap to peek at Castiel. Castiel looks a little self-satisfied, and maybe smug isn’t a particularly good look on him, but it’s a lot better than the hard lines of his face Dean has seen before. Dean just sneers a little in response. 

Castiel shrugs, and he picks up the hose to rinse Dean off. 

Castiel returns a few hours later to find Slick dozing in the grass, body spread out to accept the sun’s offering. It’s not as hot as it has been, but Castiel can still see the sheen of sweat over Slick’s body. His hair, clean and soft, glints golden in the light. 

Castiel lets the gate close loudly behind him and Slick snaps awake, on his feet in an instant. Castiel is pleased to see that a week’s worth of nutrition has done wonders for Slick’s reflexes.

“You should should stay in the shade,” Castiel says. “You’ll burn.” 

“Yeah, well,” Slick says, his hands balling into fists and then releasing, balling and releasing, at his sides. “Forgot my SPF 70 today.” 

“I’ll bring you some.” 

“You’re fucked up,” Slick says. 

Castiel arches an eyebrow and Slick takes half a step back, though Castiel is nowhere near his personal space. “I have some things for you,” Castiel says. 

Castiel doesn’t wait for him to respond, just goes to the little lean-to in the corner of the pen with his bag of treats. When Slick doesn’t follow, Castiel turns to him and says, “Well?” 

Slick approaches cautiously with the noise of chainlinks clanking together. “Sit,” Castiel says. 

“I told you I’ll bite off your dick,” Slick says. 

“Just sit down.” 

Hesitantly, he sits down, glaring up at Castiel. 

“Hands behind your back.” 

Slick hesitates again, then does it, wincing as his shoulder rotates. 

“You lost your last fight. Is that when you hurt your shoulder?” 

“Yeah.” 

“And your ribs?” 

“At the auction.” 

“And your neck, I did that.” 

“No shit.” 

Castiel bites his tongue. Instead of speaking, he kneels behind Slick and cuffs his wrists together, then moves around him to cuff his ankles, too. 

“Really?” Slick says. “Don’t think this is a little overkill?” 

Castiel fiddles with the padlock on the back of Slick’s collar until the numbers click into place. He carefully peels the collar away, glad Slick can’t see the expression on his face as he does so. Glad he can’t see the expression on Slick’s face, either. 

Slick’s neck is a patchwork of black bruises and ragged punctures where the prongs dug in. The whole thing is swollen and angry. Castiel digs through his bag for the anti-bacterial cream and starts to apply it to the wounds, willing his hands not to shake. A hard shudder goes through Slick’s whole body at the first touch. 

Breaking the silence, Slick says, “You’re one sick fuck, you know that?” 

“Yes, I’ve begun to think so.” 

Slick whips his head around to look at Castiel, but Castiel doesn’t meet his eyes, instead moving around to slather cream on the parts of Slick’s neck he couldn’t reach from behind. Next comes gauze, a few layers to keep the cream from being wiped off right away. At some point Slick’s eyes left Castiel and he started staring at the collar lying discarded next to them. There’s flakes of dried blood at the end of each prong. 

“What’s the point,” Slick says, “if you’re just going to --”

“I’m not,” Castiel says. He produces a new collar from the bag, a solid metal band that fits looser around Slick’s neck, resting on the top of his shoulders. Castiel attaches the chain to the back of it. “Better?” 

Slick shrugs. Castiel undoes the cuffs holding his hands together and Slick undoes the ones on his ankles without asking permission. Once he’s free, he stands up, grabs the pronged collar, and hurls it as hard as he can. It sails over the side of the fence and into Castiel's yard. 

Castiel waits for Slick to turn back around, sitting on his haunches in the dirt. He’s aware that Slick may very well be stronger than him without the collar as leverage, and Slick could come at him fighting, but he doesn’t move anyway. 

Slick turns to face Castiel, staring down at him with eyebrows knitted together. “Just going to sit there?” 

“I have food,” Castiel says, turning to pull out plastic containers. Slick is out of his direct eyesight now, and he half expects Slick to tackle him into the ground. He would deserve it. 

Slick watches, not bothering to hide the hunger on his face, as Castiel opens the containers to reveal fruit and a couple of sandwiches piled high with meat and cheese. He also pulls out a gallon jug of water and two of the nutrition drinks. “These first,” Castiel says, holding them up. 

Slick takes them and drinks, his eyes on the food the whole time, like he expects it to disappear if he takes his gaze off it for even a second. Castiel says, “Sit down.” 

Slick resists again, then kneels in the dirt across from Castiel. “What’s that?” he asks, pointing.

“You’ve never seen oranges before?” 

Slick shrugs. 

“Well, you’re in for a treat.” 

Castiel holds one of the slices across the space between them. Slick takes it, inspects it, then pops it into his mouth. At the first bite, his eyes widen a little, and he gives Castiel a sharp, unreadable look. 

“Good?” 

Slick doesn’t bother swallowing before saying, “It’s ok.” 

Castiel pushes the container full of orange slices to Slick, who eats fast like he thinks Castiel is going to take them back at any moment. Juice drips over his lips and down his chin; he swipes at what he can get with his tongue and rubs the rest off with the back of his hand. He looks down at the sheen of juice at the bottom of the container like he’s considering licking it up, but instead he just shoves it back at Castiel. 

Castiel handles a sandwich to him next. “Nothing fancy. Smoked ham, provolone cheese, lettuce, mayo. I was out of tomatoes.” 

Slick bites in and, again, gives Castiel a sharp look. He wolfs it down just like the oranges, and then the second sandwich disappears into his stomach, too. Castiel realizes he is smiling and quickly tames his expression. 

The last thing Castiel pulls out of his bag is a big, fluffy blanket. It’s too hot for the warmth to be necessary, but it may offer at least a slight reprieve from the hard ground. Slick touches it like he’s not sure what to do with it. 

Castiel packs up the dishes from lunch and stands. “I hope you enjoyed lunch,” he says. “I’ll see you later.” 

Hot food. Castiel brings Dean  _ hot food _ , real fucking human food, not long before sunset. Dean can’t even identify all the vegetables, but he ends up moaning around the first bite despite himself. He thinks he sees the twitch of a smile on Castiel’s mouth, but it’s so brief it could’ve been Dean’s imagination. 

And Castiel brought a fork, hands it over to Dean like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t just armed him. Like Dean couldn’t kill him with it with a well-placed thrust.

“It’s really weird that you’re just watching me, dude,” Dean says, though it’s nowhere near weird enough for him to stop shoveling food in his mouth.  _ Real human food _ , and not just slops but freshly cooked and piping hot. Dean kind of wishes he could spare a moment to savor it, but he’s still reeling at the abrupt change in Castiel’s behavior since the rut ended and isn’t sure when the coin will flip again. 

Instead of answering that, Castiel says, “I’m afraid if I bring you more, it’ll make you sick.” 

Dean laughs, unabashedly using his finger to wipe up the last of the sauce from the food container. “Real worried about me, huh?” He sucks his finger clean and catches Castiel watching. Dean shudders under the gaze and reminds himself to never do that again in Castiel’s presence. 

“Yes,” Castiel says simply, like it makes any sense at all to say. 

“Good on you, Cas, but I can take care of myself.” 

“Castiel,” Castiel says. 

“What?” 

“My name is Castiel.” 

Oh, shit. Dean flinches backward from pain that doesn’t come; Castiel just keeps looking at him curiously. 

“My brother calls me ‘Cassie,’” Castiel says at last. “I hate it.” 

“The guy with you at the auction.” 

“You saw him?” 

“I don’t think I would forget a couple of smarmy assholes carrying me in here and putting a —a choke collar on me,” Dean says, snarling. 

“You were sedated.” 

“I wasn’t  _ dead _ .”

Castiel takes the empty food containers from Dean and puts them back in his bag, then comes out with the wrist and ankle cuffs. Dean keeps scowling but puts his hands behind his back without having to be asked. 

With Dean hobbled, Castiel gingerly removes the collar from around his neck and unwraps the bandages. Dean watches him, looking for some kind of sign to tell him how bad it is, but Castiel’s face doesn’t betray a thing. The ointment comes out again and Dean tries to stay still, though he’s cringing at every touch, careful as they are. 

Bandages next. Even the soft gauze hurts a little pressing against his wounds, but mostly Dean is just worrying about what those hands are going to do to him. In the end, they don’t do anything but lock the metal band back around his neck and give him a quick pat on the shoulder as Castiel leaves the yard. 

Morning comes and the gate slams closed behind Castiel at the same time it has been all week, not too long after sunrise. Dean gets to his feet from his place curled up on the blanket Castiel brought the day before, rubbing at his scratchy eyes. 

Castiel brings a plate and fresh jug of water to Dean. Dean can’t identify this food, either, but would never admit it. Still, Castiel must sense it, because he provides, “Peanut butter and banana toast.” 

Dean eats quickly, standing. He ends up with sticky peanut butter all over his hand but doesn’t lick it off with Castiel watching.

“Bath today,” Castiel says, “but I need to take your bandages off first.” 

Castiel pulls out the cuffs, but doesn’t ask Dean to go to the ground. Dean holds his arms behind his back like a fucking obedient slave so Castiel can buckle them on, then Castiel is the one to go to his knees to cuff Dean’s ankles. Dean stares down at him, all the ways he could hurt Castiel in this position flashing through his mind. He doesn’t move. 

Castiel goes through the ritual of unhinging the collar, removing the bandages, putting the collar back on, and removing the cuffs. Silently, Dean follows him to just inside the gate. Castiel pulls in the hose and a bucket full of suds, but this time he hands the hose and the sponge off to Dean. “Can you do it yourself today or do you need help?” 

“I’m fine,” Dean says, pulling the trigger to spray himself down with the hose. 

The water is blissfully cool on what is already a hot day. Dean scrubs fast and rough, only softening his touch over his still-bruised ribs and his neck. 

When Castiel reaches out, Dean tenses but doesn’t move away as Castiel runs gentle fingertips over the bruising still visible over his ribs. “I should’ve taken better care of you,” Castiel says quietly. 

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, suddenly embarrassed and not sure why.

Castiel takes the sponge from Dean and hands out the shampoo, the one that smells just like Castiel does. Even underneath the soap and shampoo and deodorant and all the other stuff humans put on themselves to mask their true scents, Castiel is citrus-sweet. Dean’s never smelled sweetness on an alpha before. 

Dean shampoos, rinses, and hands the hose back to Castiel. Castiel gives him a small smile that’s barely a quirk of one side of his mouth, and then he leaves Dean to his little lean-to and his own thoughts. 


	3. HEAT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is pretty sure he’s been close to dying more than once in his past, but this must be the closest yet. He tries to keep his eyes open, afraid every time they drift closed that he won’t see anything ever again. Not that this shitty little pen is a great image to go out on, but if he turns his head just the smallest amount —though he doesn’t, because it hurts too bad to look into the sunlight —he could see the sky.

It’s easy to fall into a routine with Slick: early breakfast, something easy like toast or eggs and fruit; lunch, sandwiches and fruits or vegetables; dinner, something Castiel spends an increasing amount of time on, trying out new recipes just to watch Slick’s reactions. 

Slick eats everything and never comments either way, but Castiel is learning to see his tells, the way he shovels and swallows without chewing when he finds something a little distasteful but slows down to savor, eyes closing as if on their own accord, when Castiel makes something that especially pleases him. He likes ham best on his sandwiches, roast beef least; mustard made him actually frown and give Castiel an accusing look. He likes chicken but his first hamburger had him groaning. He barely tolerates raw vegetables. Strawberries are his favorite fruit, especially if Castiel slices them and sprinkles a little sugar to combat the tartness. 

In the late afternoons, just about when the sun is at its highest, Castiel brings in the hose and soap and shampoo. He tries not to watch as Slick washes himself, but the food is doing Slick well and he’s filling out into a thing of beauty. Slick has caught Castiel staring at the movements of his hands over his own body more than once. 

Castiel knew it would happen eventually, but it still surprises him when he gets close to Slick and smells the faintest hint of heat sweetening his scent. 

“You’re going into heat,” Castiel says over dinner. 

Slick pauses with a sweet potato fry halfway to his mouth. Castiel likes to keep his pet fed with healthy food, but figures the indulgence won’t kill him once. “No, I’m not,” Slick says. “That doesn’t happen to me.” 

Castiel arches an eyebrow. “No?” 

Slick shrugs. “No.” 

“All omegas go into heat, Slick.” 

Slick shrugs again. Castiel doesn’t push it. 

In the morning, Castiel pauses outside the gate. Even before he opens it, he can smell the saccharine scent of Slick in full heat. Castiel’s nostrils flare. He closes his eyes, counts to ten, and opens the gate. 

Slick doesn’t jump to his feet as usual. When Castiel approaches, it’s to find him wrapped in the blanket, teeth chattering, even as sweat is beginning to make Castiel’s t-shirt stick to his back. 

“Slick?” 

Slick’s eyes don’t even open; he just pulls the blanket tighter around himself. Castiel sets the food aside and, holding his breath, kneels down to press the back of his hand against Slick’s forehead. Slick pulls away, but it seems more out of reflex than anything. His forehead is burning and clammy to the touch.

When Slick’s eyes open, just a little, Castiel can see them glazed over and far away, even in the shadow of the lean-to. “Cold, Cas,” Slick whispers.

“I can tell,” Castiel says, trying to breathe through his mouth. “But you need to sit up and eat and drink. I made eggs.” 

“Don’t go.” 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says. 

It’s a herculean effort, but Castiel manages to keep his hand off his cock until he’s under the cold spray of the shower. 

Dean is pretty sure he’s been close to dying more than once in his past, but this must be the closest yet. He tries to keep his eyes open, afraid every time they drift closed that he won’t see anything ever again. Not that this shitty little pen is a great image to go out on, but if he turns his head just the smallest amount —though he doesn’t, because it hurts too bad to look into the sunlight —he could see the sky. 

He alternates between cold like winters he’s never known and hot worse than high summer, wrapping the blanket around himself and throwing it off in turn, until eventually he’s too weak to do that, just feels the blanket going wet with sweat underneath him. His mouth feels like sandpaper but he can’t sit up on an elbow to grab the water jug, wouldn’t be able to lift it to his lips even if he could. 

Castiel returns earlier than he usually comes for lunch, but Dean isn’t sure how much earlier. From far away, he hears the gate open and then close, but he can’t move save for the shakes rushing through him every handful of seconds. 

“Slick,” Castiel says. 

“Cas,” Dean replies, and then, somehow remembering himself, “tiel.” 

“I’m here.” 

Dean  _ knows _ that, because Castiel’s scent hits him like a freight train, and Dean wants to know if he tastes the same way he smells, like oranges or clementines, maybe some other fruit he hasn’t even tasted yet. Dean reaches out with trembling fingers, finding Castiel without having to look, gripping tight to his forearm. “Don’t let me die,” Dean says. 

“You’re not going to die,” Castiel says. “You’re in heat.” 

Dean tries to shake his head, but it makes the world spin around him drunkenly, even with his eyes closed. “Please,” he says. 

“I know,” Castiel says, and this time when he touches Dean’s forehead, Dean presses into the touch instead of away from it. “You need water. Can you sit up?” 

There’s a whine in Dean’s throat when Castiel’s hand moves away from his face, but then both of Castiel’s hands are on him, hauling him bodily upward. Dean’s head lolls and he sags against Castiel. Castiel has a really nice body. Dean’s not sure how he never noticed before. 

Something presses against Dean’s lips, and his tongue goes to meet it eagerly, his head almost clearing until he realizes it’s just a bottle of water. He drinks, but after a couple of swallows, thinks he’s going to vomit so he turns his head away. 

“You need to drink.” 

Castiel’s voice is quiet and deep and so fucking close. Dean manages to lift his head the smallest bit and his face is suddenly up against the side of Castiel’s neck. He takes a deep, shaky breath and moans. Dean’s tongue darts out to wet his cracked lips and he tastes the tang of skin.

“Not yet,” Castiel says. “Water first.” 

“Then…?” Dean says, not entirely sure what he’s asking. 

Castiel is quiet for a long time. Dean presses up closer into his neck, breathing hard with his nose just under Castiel’s ear. “Water first,” he repeats. 

Dean drinks.

For hours, Castiel told himself he’d just let Slick ride it out on his own. Sick as he’d looked at breakfast, surely he could figure out how to handle this by himself. But Castiel could only pace his house so many times, pausing every time he passed a window to glance at the privacy fence surrounding Slick’s enclosure, before he grabbed a jug of water and went to his omega. 

Even with Slick’s face up against his neck, scenting harshly at his pulsepoint, Castiel tells himself he isn’t going to do this. This wasn’t what he bought Slick for. Even what he _ did _ buy Slick for: Castiel feels ill thinking about the things he did to him mid-rut. 

But then Slick’s tongue, wet now after drinking, slips past his lips and licks at Castiel’s neck. “Slick,” Castiel says, a warning.

“You taste good,” Slick says before his tongue runs over Castiel’s skin again. The next time Slick’s lips part, the lick is joined by the gentle scraping of teeth. 

Castiel gasps and it just brings in more of Slick’s scent, making him dizzy with it. Castiel’s mouth is suddenly dry; he drinks from the jug he brought out for Slick. “Come on,” Castiel says, hands moving Slick away from his side, gentle but firm. “On your stomach.” 

“But --” 

“I’m going to help you.” 

Slick stops struggling to get closer and lets himself be guided back to the ground. Castiel takes a long moment to just look at the long lines of his back, ribs almost disappeared under a layer of fat and muscle, but Slick is keening and squirming, one of his hands reaching back blindly towards Castiel, so Castiel nudges Slick’s legs apart and moves between them, sliding a hand from the back of Slick’s hair down his spine to trace his fingers between between the cheeks of Slick’s ass to find him  _ dripping _ . 

“Oh,” Castiel says, a breathy moan. 

“Please,” Slick says, his hand finding Castiel’s denim-clad thigh and squeezing. 

“What, Slick? What do you want?” 

Slick’s hand squeezes harder. Helplessly: “Don’t know.” 

Castiel leans over and, strangely, kisses the top knob of Slick’s spine. “Do you want me inside of you?” Castiel says, but before all the words are even out of his mouth, he’s sliding his first finger into Slick’s hole. 

Slick cries out, hips rising to meet the first thrust. Castiel puts his other hand on Slick’s flank, easing him back to the ground, before pushing a second finger in. Slick is fever-hot on the inside, too, and wetter than Castiel even knew was possible. 

“Slick,” Castiel says. “Do you want me inside of you?” 

“Cas,” Slick says, his lower back hollowing as he arches upwards as much as he can with Castiel holding him down. “Please, please.” 

The third finger goes in just as easy as the first two. Castiel pumps them in and out, listening to Slick grow more and more desperate below him, perfect little whines and pleas falling out of his mouth, a fresh sheen of sweat over the flexing muscles of his shoulders. Castiel doesn’t know why he’s doing this, torturing them both with just his fingers, but that’s all he offers Slick for long minutes. 

It’s nothing Slick says that does him in; it’s his own need that does it, a knot swelling at the base of his cock without his pants even unbuttoned. 

The tremors running through Dean lessen almost as soon as Castiel’s cock is deep inside of him, but start again when Castiel doesn’t move, just presses his weight up against Dean. “Cas, please,” Dean whimpers. 

“Yes?” Castiel’s breath is hot just behind his ear, scenting. 

“I —fuck, I —I need you to --” 

Castiel gives a gentle roll of his hips and Dean tries to dig his fingernails into Castiel’s leg, just scratching instead against his jeans. “I can give you what you want,” Castiel says, “but you have to give me something first.” 

“Anything,” Dean says. 

Castiel rolls his hips a second time, just as gentle as the first, and says, “Tell me your name.” 

Dean groans. “Cas,” he says, begging. 

“No,” Castiel says. “Not until you tell me your name.” 

Dean licks his lips, impossibly dry again. It feels better with Castiel inside him, feels like dying is a little less immediate, but he’s still too hot and too itchy in his own skin and can’t get his brain to focus, no matter how hard he tries. He whispers, “Dean.” 

“Good boy,” Castiel says. 

Castiel withdraws slowly, then slams back in, punching the air out of Dean’s lungs. Dean manages a harsh breath and wails at the next snap of Castiel’s hips. 

“Good boy,” Castiel says again. It makes something other than heat tremble in Dean’s chest. No one has ever said this to him before. 

Castiel leans down, closer, his body draped over Dean’s and t-shirt scratchy against Dean’s over-sensitive skin. He uses sharp alpha teeth to nip at the back of Dean’s neck while he fucks him, hard and deep. Dean is saying words but he doesn’t know what they are, or maybe he’s just moaning incoherently, but he can feel Castiel smiling against his neck as he scents him. 

Dean’s hand leaves Castiel’s thigh and reaches upwards, managing to slip under Castiel’s shirt to grip the soft skin at his hip. “More,” Dean says.

“More?” Castiel mocks. He’s out of breath, panting open-mouthed against Dean, and Dean feels like he hasn’t been able to breathe for long minutes, just floating somewhere where all that matters is the thick scents of their arousal mingling in the air, the glide of Castiel’s cock in and out of him, the feeling of Castiel’s skin under his hand. 

“Please, Cas, please,” Dean says, canting his hips upward until he’s half on his knees. The angle changes and the pleasure goes from intense to screaming hot. 

“I have to knot you,” Castiel says. 

Dean nods frantically. “Yeah, Cas.” 

“You can come any time,” Castiel says, and his knot catches, and he grinds deep and dirty inside Dean.

Dean didn’t realize he was waiting for permission, but as soon as Castiel is knotted in him, he shudders and groans and spills and sags against Castiel’s arm, wrapped around his middle to hold him up. Castiel keeps grinding and Dean feels it acutely as Castiel comes inside him, biting at Dean’s shoulder. 

Dean’s head falls down between his shoulders. He’s shaking again, but for an entirely different reason. Castiel runs a soothing hand down his flank, murmurs, “Dean.” 

Dean closes his eyes. “Yeah?” 

“Do you feel better?” 

“Yes. Yeah. Feel good.” 

Castiel gently lowers Dean back to the ground, on his stomach, knot pulling at Dean’s rim in a delicious torture as Castiel’s body follows. It’s fucking hot outside and Castiel is all heavy muscle holding Dean to the ground and Dean wants to bask in this moment forever. Castiel nuzzles at Dean’s shoulder and then bites and sucks at the teeth marks from when he came, pulling a bruise to the surface. Marking Dean his. 

Castiel’s knot goes down too soon and he pulls back, leaving Dean empty with slick and come sliding out of him to coat the inside of his thighs. Dean turns over on his side to watch Castiel pull his jeans back over his hips. Sweat has his hair sticking to his forehead and Dean reaches out to stroke it out of his eyes. 

Castiel returns the gesture, smoothing Dean’s hair. Dean makes a noise like a purr. “Don’t go,” Dean says. 

“I’ll be back soon.” 

Castiel takes another shower, his hands trembling as he spreads soap over his sweat-sticky skin. “ _ Dean _ ,” he whispers, the sound all but swallowed by the water pounding over him.

Even out of the shower, after slathering himself in fragrant soap and shampoo, Castiel still can’t smell anything but Dean. It’s cloying, it’s intoxicating. It makes him wonder what that smell would be like on his sheets.

Castiel dresses in fresh clothes and absently makes himself a cup of tea, but it grows cold while he stands at the window, staring again at the nondescript fence of Dean’s paddock. He should be doing something, had plans for the day before he couldn’t stay away from Dean, but he can’t quite remember what they were. 

Setting the tea aside, Castiel goes to his desk and digs up the file he was given when he purchased Dean. It’s not the tidy, concise histories of omegas he’s seen before —it’s a mess of crinkled papers, stained with coffee or maybe blood, scribbled notes on wins and losses. Castiel takes notes as he reads, trying to assemble the narrative into something coherent. 

From what he can gather, Dean has been in over three hundred dog-eat-dog fights. Castiel stares at the tally marks, tilted to the right in his own messy handwriting, numb. He tries to imagine Dean, feral like the day they met, resisting death by doling it out by his own hands. Hundreds of times. At least.

There are vet receipts, but not nearly enough to go with the incomplete notes about injuries that go with the fights. There are bills of sale, one of them written on the back of a flyer advertising a fight. There’s an uncompleted registration application with pictures, front and back, of Dean stapled to it. In the pictures, he’s much younger but almost unrecognizable with two swollen black eyes and a split lip. He’s covered in welts and bruises. There’s a cheap splint around one of his wrists. The registration form looks to be the oldest document in the file and it’s dated eight years ago with Dean’s age estimated at fifteen. 

Castiel sets the file aside, glad the tea never made it into his stomach because he’s sure it would be coming back up. He puts his head down on the desk and takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. It’s probably at least partially to the alpha hormones still being overproduced after his encounter with Dean’s heat, but he feels  _ murderous _ . If he keeps looking at the file he’ll get in his car and drive to each previous owner’s home in turn and destroy them for what they’ve done to his omega. 

He keeps breathing instead, concentrating on the memory of Dean wanton underneath him, saying his name like a religious chant.  _ Cas, Cas, Cas _ . 

Castiel puts together sandwiches quickly, adding a generous amount of baby carrots to a bowl, and grabs two bottles of juice to go along with the food. 

Dean is still on his blanket in the lean-to, shivering, but he’s at least aware when Castiel approaches. He struggles to sit up on his own as Castiel kneels next to him. 

“You came back,” Dean says. 

“You thought I wouldn’t?” 

“I don’t know,” Dean says. He reaches up and touches the mark on his shoulder. When his hand falls away, Castiel leans over to mouth over the spot, scraping with his teeth. Dean whines low in his throat. “Need you,” Dean says. 

“You need to eat.” 

Dean shifts closer, raising his hand to press it almost tentatively against Castiel’s chest. “Just need you.” 

Castiel laughs softly, turning his head to press his face into Dean’s hair and inhale. “Be good for me and eat. Then I’ll take care of you.” 

Dean frowns, but takes one of the sandwiches when Castiel offers it. It’s bbq brisket, and Dean ends up licking sweet sauce off of his fingers. Castiel eats the second one, and when sauce drips over his first two fingers, Castiel holds out his hand. He doesn’t have to ask before Dean takes both fingers in his mouth, sucking him clean. Castiel’s eyes darken as he watches and feels the working of Dean’s tongue. When he pulls his fingers out of Dean’s mouth, they go with a wet pop and Dean looks disappointed. 

“Carrots,” Castiel says, pushing the bowl towards Dean. 

Dean scowls. “I hate carrots.” 

“I know.” Castiel picks one up and teases it against Dean’s lips. “You’ll eat them for me, though.” 

Dean resists for another moment, lips pursed, then opens his mouth and lets Castiel feed it to him. Dean bites down with a loud crunch and Castiel smiles. “Good boy.” 

Castiel is pleased to see Dean flush under the praise, ducking his eyes away. Castiel holds out another carrot and Dean takes it from his fingers without resistance.

By the time the food is gone, Dean’s hand is back on Castiel, gripping his shoulder tightly, and he looks a little dazed.

“Are you ok, Dean?” 

“I just —I just need --” 

“Yes?” 

“You. Please.” 

Dean’s hand drifts down Castiel’s body and slides under Castiel’s shirt to touch Castiel’s stomach. Dean whimpers like he’s the one being touched and Castiel has the sudden, intense urge to kiss him, to taste the sweetness of his tongue, but he refrains. 

“Can you —will you --” Dean tugs at the hem of Castiel’s shirt, pushing it upwards to reveal his hips up to his ribs. Castiel pulls it off and drops it to the dirt.

“Lay down,” Castiel says. 

Dean pulls his hand away reluctantly and lays back, that dazed look still in his eyes. He’s flushed and the freckles across his nose stand out in stark contrast to the red of his cheeks. Castiel’s eyes rove down Dean’s body —he’s been in the presence of Dean, nude, every day for weeks, but never really  _ looked _ . 

The freckles on Dean’s shoulders are darker than the ones on his face. He’s covered in scars, some of them faded to almost white while others are dark and twisted, wounds that should’ve been taken better care of and not left to become infected and festering. There are lovely lightning marks over the curve of his hips. His cock is hard and insistent against his stomach; Castiel has no idea how he’s keeping his hands off himself. 

The hair on his legs is soft to the touch as Castiel slides his hands up them, pushing them wide. In the deep V of Dean’s legs, he’s shiny with slick. Castiel’s fingers twitch to go there immediately, but instead he pulls off his shoes and works out of his pants and boxers. Dean watches with wide, darkening eyes. His gaze goes immediately to Castiel’s cock and he whimpers. 

“I know,” Castiel says. 

Castiel moves in between Dean’s legs and slides his hand down Dean’s cock, over his balls, to where he is wet and waiting. Castiel slips two fingers into him immediately, then three, taking it slow, twisting his wrist to make sure Dean is nice and ready for him. Dean rides back down on his hand, groaning in frustration. 

“Cas,” he says, a hitch in his voice. 

“All right,” Castiel says. He withdraws his fingers, strokes his cock a couple of times to wet it with Dean’s slick, and slides just the crown into Dean, torturously slow. 

“Cas,” Dean says again. He tries to push his hips down to take more of Castiel in, but Castiel puts a hand on his hip to still him. 

“Let me,” Castiel says. 

Watching Dean’s face, Castiel moves, inch by inch, deeper inside him. Dean doesn’t disappoint: his eyelashes flutter closed, fanning out across his cheeks, and his lips part to show just the hint of his pink tongue. The flush on his face darkens further. He tilts his chin up, subconsciously baring his neck to Castiel. 

Castiel resists for the first handful of strokes, continuing to watch Dean instead, but as the first moan falls out of Dean’s mouth, Castiel is drawn to his neck, the second strongest place to find Dean’s scent, and he breathes deep while sucking and biting, sucking and biting. 

As Castiel starts up a slow and easy rhythm, just savoring the way it feels to be inside Dean, so tight and hot and wet, Dean wraps his arms around him and jerks him down closer, skin to skin, holding Castiel’s face against him. Castiel can feel Dean scenting him, too, nose in his hair, and he wonders, drunk on Dean, if Dean can feel it, too. Whatever Castiel is feeling. 

“You can come anytime, Dean,” Castiel says. “Whenever you need to.” 

Dean is trembling a little underneath him, but when Castiel shifts his hips to adjust the angle, Dean  _ vibrates _ and cries out. “Cas!” 

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel says, speeding up his thrusts, just a little harder, a little faster, a little deeper. 

Dean is crying out every time Castiel goes deep and his hands are scratching down Castiel’s back, hard enough to sting, and Castiel can practically smell him approaching orgasm, if the increasing wetness smearing between their stomachs wasn’t an indication on it’s own. 

“Come for me, Dean,” Castiel says up against his ear, and Dean tenses, thighs clamping closed around Castiel’s hips, and there’s a mess of come making their stomachs slippery against each other. “Good boy, good boy.” 

It’s easy for Castiel to come quickly after, Dean boneless and humming happily underneath him. He pushes deep so his knot catches and Dean gasps softly. “Cas,” he moans, and Castiel can feel his dick twitching with renewed interest. 

For a long time they just breathe, panting against each other’s necks, their scents combining into something dizzying and perfect. 

When Castiel pulls out, Dean’s arms drop from around his shoulders and he smiles up at Castiel, looking fully debauched with marks down one side of his neck, his hair in disarray, come smeared over his stomach and chest. 

Castiel reaches and swipes his fingers through one of the trails of come and holds them up to Dean’s lips. There’s no hesitation as Dean takes the fingers into his mouth, moaning softly as Castiel thrusts them in and out. “Good boy,” Castiel says. 

Dean smiles around his fingers. 

Dean has had sex before. Sort of. Most of his life he’s been housed alone, separated from other omegas, but there were a few occasions where he and another omega could take what little comfort available in each other’s bodies in whatever dark corner they were shoved in.

Once he shared shy fingerfucks with a girl who hadn’t been deemed pretty enough to belong to a respectable alpha and spent what little years she had being passed around from low-end auction to low-end auction, always just lucky enough to escape death. Head on his shoulder, she whispered to him that sometimes she wished they would just kill her already. Dean said, “Me, too,” but when the next fight came up, he killed another dog with his fists. It was around that time that Dean stopped trying to remember each kill. 

Castiel touches him carefully now, gently. Even strokes Dean’s cock while fucking him a few times, letting Dean come all over his fist. Castiel bites his neck until it’s tender and bruised —Dean knows what bruising feel like by touch, but he wishes he had a mirror to see these on his skin, shaped like Castiel’s mouth. Castiel visits him every few hours, even through the night when all they have is moonlight to navigate each other’s bodies by, and Dean’s fever doesn’t spike again. 

The heat lasts four days. By the end, it feels like Castiel has fucked him a million times. He’s used to the way it feels to be tied to another person, that intense fullness, the heady scent. He’s stroked his hands over the rough scruff growing on Castiel’s jaw by day three, when they are both exhausted and having trouble focusing on anything other than sloppily sating Dean’s need.

On day four, Dean is steadier on his feet but still happily welcomes Castiel into his body. He eats without Castiel having to coax each bite in his mouth. He chugs water like he’s been walking in a desert his whole life. 

That night, not long after sunset, Castiel brushes the back of his hand over Dean’s forehead and says, “You’ll be ok tonight.” 

Dean is already curling up on his side, welcoming sleep, and he mumbles, “Ok, Cas. See you tomorrow.” By the time the gate clicks closed, Dean’s fallen asleep. 


	4. YEARN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m a fighting dog,” Dean says, voice hard and cold. “Not one of your precious pets.”

Without having to worry about Dean, Castiel sleeps hard and long, past the time he usually brings Dean breakfast. When he finally gets up and around, makes it through a mug of tea, scrolling through the news aggregate on his phone, the sun is already beating down. 

Castiel opens the gate and Dean is already on his feet, backing towards the far end of the pen, chains clinking. 

“Good morning,” Castiel says, his smile faltering. 

Castiel forges ahead, going to sit in the shade of the lean-to with the hearty breakfast he’s made Dean, all of Dean’s favorites on one plate, and Dean takes another two steps backwards even though Castiel hasn’t directly approached him. Dean doesn’t take his wild eyes off of Castiel to even glance at the food.

“If you touch me, I’ll fucking kill you,” Dean says. “I’ll fucking do it.” 

Castiel stands back up, frowning. Dean shies away again, until the chain is pulled taut to his collar. “I won’t touch you,” Castiel says, head tilted to the side.

“Yeah, ok,” Dean says, snarling.

“Dean --”

Dean flinches backwards like he’s been punched. “Don’t you dare,” he says, “say my name.” 

Castiel doesn’t know what to say at all. “You need to eat,” he finally settles on. 

Dean laughs without humor, nothing at all like the laugh he shared when Castiel brushed his lips too lightly against his neck and found a ticklish spot. “So, what? So you can do that to me again?” 

“Do what? I don’t understand.” 

“Whatever the fuck you did to me. To make me like —I wasn’t  _ easy _ enough for you already? You couldn’t just put the collar back on?” 

“You needed help,” Castiel says. 

“Fuck you. I was fine until —whatever you did to me --” 

“You were in heat.” 

Dean shakes his head vehemently. “Get away from me,” he says even though Castiel hasn’t made a move to approach. 

Castiel raises his hands, palms out, and backs himself towards the gate. He only turns away when his back hits the fence. He slips out and padlocks it closed. He hasn’t really been bothering for a while; Dean is still tethered to a concrete pole and can only barely reach out to touch the fence while he’s at the very end of the chain anyway. 

In the house, Castiel washes the breakfast dishes methodically, his mind still back in Dean’s pen. 

As soon as Castiel is gone, Dean dumps the food off the plate and kicks dirt over it to stop the temptation of eating. Not that he hasn’t eaten plenty of dirty food, but at least it’ll give his roaring stomach a pause before he gets that desperate. Whatever Castiel did must have been in the food —the water is always sealed.

He throws the plate against the fence, as hard as he can, and it shatters. Dean doesn’t bother to be mindful of his feet as he picks the largest jagged slice out of the grass. He has no idea what he thinks he might do with it, but he meant it that he’d rather kill Castiel than be touched again, even if it means he just dehydrates to death alone in this prison with Castiel’s corpse for company. It wouldn’t be the first time Dean has shared space with a dead body.

Castiel doesn’t come back until the sun is setting, and only then to set a fresh jug of water and container of food just inside the gate. He looks at Dean for a long, indecipherable moment, then he’s gone. 

Dean doesn’t sleep, stays on his feet pacing to keep himself awake, glancing at the gate every few seconds. Just waiting. 

In the morning, when Dean is ragged and exhausted and hungry, Castiel brings food and one of the sealed nutrition drinks along with it. Dean stays as far away from him as he can and Castiel doesn’t try to press his space, just leaves the items under the lean-to. 

“The plate from yesterday?” 

Dean shrugs. Castiel looks around, catches sight of the remains of it, and stoops over to pick the largest pieces out of the grass. He doesn’t seem to notice that a big piece is missing. The day before, Dean put it in the far corner of the lean-to and covered it with dirt. 

“Are you feeling ok?” Castiel says. 

Dean sneers. “Never better.” 

“It’s going to be hot today. I’m leaving the hose in here so you can cool off.” 

“Considerate of you.” 

Castiel gives him another long look, open his mouth like he’s not sure what to say, and then settles on, quietly, “I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah, ok. Like you didn’t fucking like it. You’re so fucked up.” 

Castiel looks away. “You were very sick.” 

“You made me that way!” Dean sounds a little hysterical, even to his own ears, and he tries valiantly to rein it in. Castiel has done a lot of things to him, but this is the worst yet, making him  _ yearn _ . 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel repeats, and then turns away to leave Dean alone. A moment later, the hose is tossed over the fence, and then Castiel goes into the house so Dean can’t even smell him anymore. 

Dean uses the hose to wash himself, scrubbing with his fingernails in lieu of a sponge, leaving angry red stripes all over his body. He tries to erase everywhere Castiel touched him, but he can’t erase the tender marks all over his neck and shoulders. Castiel didn’t break the skin, but he’s marked Dean up all the same. 

Dean goes into the corner of his pen and pukes up nothing but water and bile. 

Dean won’t eat. He’ll take water and the nutrition drinks, but any food Castiel brings him remains untouched and sometimes dumped over in the dirt. He won’t let Castiel approach him, his eyes going wild and afraid if Castiel even thinks about taking a step towards the corner that Dean always retreats to when Castiel is inside the gate. He won’t even bathe if Castiel is still in the pen with him. 

Dean reacts even worse when Castiel uses his name, so Castiel goes back to calling him Slick, at least out loud. 

After another ignored sandwich, Dean just glaring from the corner, Castiel says, “Slick, was that really your first heat?” 

Even from across the yard, Castiel can see the shudder run through him and Castiel catches the quick glance Dean sends to the corner of the lean-to. Castiel is pretty sure he’d taken a piece of the plate he’d broken weeks ago, so maybe that’s where Dean is hiding it. 

“I’ve done some research, and a lot of omegas in situations similar to yours cease having heats. Heats are very taxing on the body, put a lot of strain on internal resources. Malnutrition plays a large role.” 

Dean clenches his fists at his sides but says nothing. He’s largely stopped talking, too, even his anger silent and seething.

“Your file leads me to believe you weren’t very well taken care of.” 

“I’m a fighting dog,” Dean says, voice hard and cold. “Not one of your precious pets.” 

“You’re precious to me, and you’ll never have to fight again.” 

Dean looks a little surprised, just briefly, the first thing Castiel has seen out of him other than fear and loathing since his heat. 

“I’m not sure what to do next time,” Castiel says, more thinking out loud than anything. “Do you remember how sick you were? Before we…?”

“I won’t let you do that to me again. Make me —make me that way.” 

“I can’t stop you from going into heat,” Castiel says, “but we don’t have to —I don’t have to touch you. I can bring you a fake knot. You’ll still be ill, but it won’t be as bad.” 

Dean refuses to say anything else for days. 

Even though it’s high summer and all Dean really wants to do is sit in the shade, as tiny of a reprieve as it is, but he spends most of his days pacing back and forth, creating a clear path in the dirt. He starts calisthenics, too, push-ups until his arms tremble, jumping jacks, long stretches. He tries to jog sometimes, but ends up tripping over the chain and the pen is too small to do anything but dizzy him when he runs in circles. He’s let Castiel make him so weak, fattening him up like a pig with all the food he now craves but won’t let himself have, and he’s determined to have something closer to the strong, lean body he’s used to again.

Dean can smell Castiel before he even gets to the gate. He can always smell him, at least a little, but it’s not just his regular scent but an alpha stench that wafts towards Dean on the barest breeze. 

Dean rushes over to the corner and manages to unearth the jagged piece of plate with only a little digging. It seems pathetic in his hand, might not be useful at all, but it’s better than nothing. 

Castiel’s arms are full with a big box that he dumps just inside the gate. If he notices the weapon Dean is wielding, he doesn’t say anything about it. 

“I’m going into rut,” Castiel says, like Dean can’t smell it on him. 

“I’ll kill you,” Dean says. 

“OmegaJuice and plenty of water,” Castiel says, pointing to the box. “I’ll see you in a few days.” 

Bewildered, Dean stares at the gate long after Castiel is gone. 

Castiel is resolute on not visiting Dean, even at the peak of the insanity that is rutting, instead taking what little satisfaction there is to be had with his own hand and bottled slick. He couldn’t possibly control himself from at least thinking about Dean, though, the way  _ Cas _ sounded on Dean’s tongue as he gripped Castiel tightly. 

Castiel waits an extra day that probably isn’t strictly necessary, just to make sure, but he’s worrying about Dean’s water supply so he bites the bullet and re-enters the pen four days later. Dean is on his feet in the corner, the piece of broken plate in his hand. 

Dean has been hoarding water just like he did when Castiel first got him. “You need to be drinking more,” Castiel says. “The heat.” 

“Fuck you,” Dean says, his voice a dry rasp. 

Castiel drops a couple of nutritional drinks next to the fence. “Drink more,” he repeats before he leaves.

So it goes. Castiel brings Dean water and OmegaJuice while Dean stands in the corner with his weapon. At least once a day, Castiel brings solid food, too, but it’s never touched. Castiel misses whatever easy peace they had before Dean’s heat. He misses the way Dean would smile when he ate something especially pleasing to him. He misses Dean being glad to see him. He misses those few days where he could bury his face into Dean’s neck and breathe him in.

One morning —it’s hot enough, even just before sunrise, that Castiel runs inside on the treadmill instead of braving the heavy air —Castiel makes them both breakfast and brings it into the yard along with Dean’s water and drink. Instead of dropping things off for Dean and leaving, Castiel sits cross-legged near the fence. 

Castiel holds up one plate in each hand. “Pick one,” Castiel says. “I’ll eat the other.” 

Dean doesn’t move, but he’s staring at the food. Pancakes are Dean’s favorite. 

Castiel shrugs. He eats a piece of bacon from one plate and then the other, exaggerating his appreciation with an indulgent smile. “I brought OmegaJuice and water, too,” Castiel says, gesturing to the bottles next to him, “but you’ll have to come get them.” 

Dean’s eyes stray to the water and he licks chapped lips. “No,” Dean says. 

Castiel shrugs again, like it makes no difference to him, and keeps eating, alternating bites from each plate. 

“It’s not going to work,” Dean says. “I’m not stupid.” 

“I know that,” Castiel says. “You’re smart enough to know you need water.” 

Dean holds back, watching Castiel eat. Finally, he says, “If you touch me --” 

“I won’t.” 

Dean grips the piece of plate harder, takes a single step forward, pauses. Castiel keeps his eyes downward, pretending to be concentrating on the food while all of his attention is laser focused on Dean in his peripheral vision. 

Dean darts forward, grabs the water, and is back in his corner before Castiel even processes it happening. Dean is  _ fast _ , and Castiel realizes suddenly how easily Dean really could kill him. Castiel wouldn’t stand a chance. Michael had warned him when he heard that Castiel had bought a dog and not a docile pet, but Castiel has never even been to a fight, and even reading about Dean’s kill tally hadn’t brought the point home. 

“Good boy,” Castiel says. Dean stops guzzling water just long enough to glare at him. 


	5. CAGE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing is Dean’s favorite anymore. It was stupid, the way he felt before he went into heat, Castiel bringing him food and making him smile so easy with such tiny pleasures. It was even more stupid, the way he felt during heat with Castiel’s hands on him, scent-drunk on the sweetness of him.

Dean isn’t stupid, but he can’t figure Castiel out, either. He did something to Dean, something that made Dean crazy with wanting, but he’d touched Dean gently throughout, didn’t try to hurt him. And then he went into rut and didn’t touch Dean at all. And then he’d just left Dean alone. 

And now, he’s back in Dean’s pen several times a day, sitting by the fence and eating, always asking Dean to choose a plate first. Dean knows that’s some kind of trick, maybe Castiel is immune to whatever is in the food, so he keeps refusing, but it gets a little easier to approach and take his water and drink from next to Castiel as each day passes without Castiel trying to touch him. 

Dean has learned to expect Castiel’s presence at the same times every day, so he’s immediately nervous when Castiel starts fiddling with the lock on the outside of the gate a couple hours early of their midday meal. Dean’s eyes immediately go to the things Castiel is carrying, wrist and ankle cuffs and --

“No,” Dean whispers, watching the sunlight glint off the prongs of the collar. “I’ve been good —you said I’ve been good.” 

“You have been,” Castiel says. “I want to reward you.” 

“Please,” Dean says, starting to shake. “Please don’t. I’ll be better. I’ll eat. You can —you can touch me if you want.” 

Castiel frowns, bending over to grab the chain where it’s stretched tight between the pole and Dean. He hasn’t touched it in months. “I need you to cooperate, Slick,” Castiel says. “I’m not going to hurt you.” 

“Are you getting rid of me?” 

“Absolutely not. Come here, please.” When Dean doesn’t move, Castiel tugs gently on the chain, repeating, “Come here.” 

“You said I’ve been good,” Dean says again. Dimly, he’s aware of a tear rolling down his face, but mostly he just can’t breathe, airway forced closed, already able to feel the black bruises framing his throat. Dean is frozen, unable to move even as Castiel approaches, wrapping the chain around his forearm as he comes closer.

“Slick,” Castiel says, voice quiet. 

Dean goes to his knees. When Castiel is close enough, Dean reaches for the button of his jeans. “I don’t know how, but I’ll —you’d like it if I —I know not to bite, I promise I won’t.” 

“Shh,” Castiel says, pushing Dean’s hands away. Castiel reaches out and wipes the tear track away with his thumb. “It’s ok. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to reward you for being so good.” 

Dean closes his eyes tight as Castiel drapes the collar loosely around his neck. The prongs don’t dig in but he can feel them there all the same, the threat of it. 

“Stand up, please,” Castiel says. “Hands behind your back.” 

Dean struggles to his feet and holds his hands together. Castiel buckles the cuffs snugly onto his wrists, then pauses to run a gentle hand down Dean’s arm before he kneels to put on the ankle cuffs, too. Castiel attaches a shorter, lighter chain to the choke collar and unlocks the other collar from around Dean’s neck, dropping it to the ground. 

“Can you walk?” Castiel says. 

Dean follows Castiel as quickly as he can with shuffling feet, trying to prepare himself for the jerk of the collar that never comes. Castiel just walks slowly, at Dean’s pace, and leads Dean out into the world. 

Castiel expected resistance, but he didn’t realize Dean would fall apart at just the sight of the choke collar. It leaves Castiel shaken, and he keeps sneaking looks at Dean’s face even though Dean doesn’t take his eyes off his feet, struggling to keep them under him while hobbled. Dean is concentrating so hard that he doesn’t seem to notice where they are headed until Castiel is pushing the back door open to a rush of air-conditioned air. 

Dean’s head jerks up and he takes a stumbling step backwards. Castiel grabs him by the elbow so he doesn’t fall, careful not to let the collar pull against Dean’s neck. 

“Come in,” Castiel says, offering a small smile. 

Dean steps carefully inside, leaving dirt-smudged footprints on the hardwood. He’s still shaking, but now his eyes are darting around, trying to take in everything at once. Castiel glances around, too, wondering what his little house looks like to someone who is seeing it for the first time. It may even be the first time Dean’s seen the inside of  _ any _ house. 

“This way,” Castiel says, leading Dean into the kitchen. 

Dean stumbles and Castiel has to catch him again. Dean flinches from the touch but doesn’t pull away. 

“Slick,” Castiel says. “Look at me.” 

Dean’s eyes are glassy when they meet Castiel’s. Castiel puts his hand on Dean’s face, gently running his fingertips through the hair just behind Dean’s ear. Dean’s pulse pounds erratically. “I’ll be good,” Dean whispers.

“I know you will be.” Castiel smiles softly, but Dean doesn’t look any less terrified.

Castiel wraps the end of the chain around his wrist a couple times, leaving plenty of it loose so he can move around the kitchen without pulling on the collar. He gently guides Dean away from the fridge so he can grab a package of chicken stir fry out of the freezer. “This isn’t going to be as good as when I make it, but I thought if you watched it being prepared, you would eat.” 

Dean stares at the chain around Castiel’s wrist, breathing shakily every time Castiel’s arm moves. 

“Slick? Can you do that for me?” 

Dean nods. Another tear falls, and, without realizing he’s going to do it until it’s too late, Castiel kisses it off of Dean’s cheek. 

“You’re ok,” Castiel says. “I just want to feed you. I’ll even eat the carrots.” 

It’s a frozen meal so it’s not exactly difficult to prepare —Castiel even bought some of that shitty single-serving microwave rice —but Castiel shows and explains every step to Dean. He’s not sure Dean even notices, eyes on the chain around Castiel’s wrist, 

Castiel dumps all the food into a single large bowl and takes it to the small table in the kitchen. “Kneel here, please,” Castiel says, pointing to the floor, and he takes Dean’s elbows to help him to the ground. The movement jostles the collar and Dean shuts his eyes tight, his whole body cringing onto itself. 

“Look at me,” Castiel says. 

Dean’s eyes fly open and he watches Castiel take the first bite. If he were alone, Castiel would probably be using chopsticks, but instead he’s got a spoon, hand held underneath to catch any stray bits of rice or sauce. He holds a bite out to Dean and Dean opens his mouth to accept it, silent. Castiel is still a little disconcerted at the lack of fight left in Dean, but is glad that Dean is at least eating. 

“Good?” Castiel says. 

Dean stares at him like he’s trying to figure out the correct answer. Finally, he nods. 

“Good,” Castiel says, gently stroking Dean’s cheek again. Dean’s eyes flutter closed and he leans into the touch. “Good,” Castiel repeats. 

They go through most of the food together, but Castiel stops before it’s all gone, wary of making Dean sick. 

Castiel leaves Dean on the floor, unwrapping the chain a bit so he can get started on the dishes. 

“Is that —that thing —is that going to happen to me again?” 

Castiel glances over his shoulder. “You shouldn’t go back into heat for a few more weeks, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“That’s never happened to me before.” 

“I know. That must have been very scary.” 

“And you’re —going to touch me again.” 

Castiel frowns, rinsing soap off his hands. “I think we’ve determined that’s not a good idea.” 

“You don’t want to anymore?” 

“What I want is not particularly relevant.” 

“But… I’m yours.” 

Castiel turns to face Dean, leaning up against the counter and rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Yes, you are.” 

“You can do what you want to me.” 

“Yes, I —technically, yes.” Castiel watches him, trying to decipher the expression on Dean’s face, but Dean doesn’t say anything else. “Your knees must hurt,” Castiel says. “Let’s get you up.” 

Castiel takes Dean by the elbows and hauls him upwards until he’s standing again, a couple inches taller than Castiel but somehow managing to look much smaller. 

“I have something else to show you,” Castiel says. 

Dean nods and stumble-walks behind Castiel down the hallway. It was probably a bad idea to set Dean up in Castiel’s own bedroom, but there wasn’t any room in the living room and Castiel will feel better being able to keep an eye on him anyway. “This is for you,” Castiel says. 

Dean looks at the cage for a long minute, then at Castiel, then back at the cage. “For me?” 

“It’s too hot for you to be outside all the time. You’ll get heat stroke. Now you can stay inside.” 

“I don’t get it.” 

Castiel laughs, a little too fondly. “You sleep in here now.” 

The cage isn’t very big. Dean can sit up straight, but has to curl up pretty tightly to lay down. It’s full of blankets and he immediately pulls one over himself in the cold air. After some shifting around, he even manages to lay so the collar doesn’t dig too hard into his neck. 

“Comfortable?” Castiel says. 

Dean looks up at him in the dim light. “Guess so,” he says. 

Dean didn’t even know what comfortable  _ was _ until he curled up in this little nest full of blankets and pillows. He wonders if this is how house pets live all the time, if there’s really anything to complain about in that kind of life. If Castiel is really going to let him stay here again. 

“Wait, sit up,” Castiel says. “Scoot over here.” 

Dean sits and moves backwards until his back is pressed up against the cold metal bars of the cage. Castiel can’t fit his hands through the bars but manages to work his fingers inside. For one terrifying moment, he’s tugging on the collar, and then it’s unclasped from Dean’s neck and Castiel pulls it outside the cage. 

“Better?” 

Dean reaches up and touches his neck. It’s the first time he’s been without a collar since Castiel bought him, and his skin feels strange under his own fingers. “Yeah,” Dean says. “Thanks.” 

Castiel smiles. He disappears into another room for a while —Dean hears the sound of running water —and when Castiel comes back out, he’s naked. Dean’s hands tighten the blanket around him but Castiel doesn’t approach, just climbs into his own bed that seems extravagantly large for a single person. 

The light goes off, and then Castiel says, quiet: “Goodnight.” 

Dean bites his lip a moment, then says, “Night.” 

Dean hasn’t slept through the night since before his heat, but wrapped up in this cocoon of comfort, listening to Castiel breathing in the same room, he sleeps hard, deep, and dreamless, only waking up when Castiel’s alarm goes off just before dawn. 

Castiel only glances briefly at Dean before stumbling into the other room. Dean listens while Castiel pisses, more water runs. Castiel comes out naked but digs around in a drawer and dresses quickly in loose clothes Dean has never seen on him before. 

“I’ll be back,” Castiel says. “About an hour.” 

Dean sits up, stretching as much as he can, and waits. 

Castiel runs longer than usual, outdoors where the oppressive air makes him sluggish. He has no idea what he’s doing anymore, how he went from buying a dog to help him through ruts to putting together a little nest of blankets for Dean to stay in in his own bedroom. 

Dean is, of course, waiting just where Castiel left him, still wrapped in a blanket though sitting up. “We’ll do breakfast after I take a shower,” Castiel says. 

Castiel takes a longer shower than usual, too, though he can practically  _ feel _ the presence of Dean just a room away. Dean looked especially beautiful the night before in Castiel’s kitchen, kneeling at Castiel’s side, even with tears on his face. 

Dean watches warily as Castiel dresses, flinches away when Castiel kneels next to the cage and passes the collar back through the bars. “Put it on,” Castiel says. 

Dean takes it with trembling fingers, wrapping it around his neck. Castiel reaches between the bars of the cage to clasp and lock it closed, trying not to pull too hard. “Not too tight?” Castiel says. 

“It’s ok,” Dean says, almost too quiet to hear. 

Castiel pauses before he unlocks the cage. “Are you going to fight?” 

Dean touches the collar and shakes his head. Castiel tries to keep in mind that Dean is still an angry, feral thing, but it’s hard to remember when Dean looks so meek. Castiel fixes the numbers on the padlock until it clicks open. Dean waits inside the cage until Castiel says, “Come out.” 

Dean comes out on hands and knees, eyes on the chain wrapped around Castiel’s wrist. “Hands behind your back.” 

Dean sits back on his heels and puts his hands behind his back, patient and still as Castiel buckles cuffs around his wrists. He doesn’t bother with the ankle cuffs, which is probably ill-advised, but he’s pretty sure Dean is in no place to try anything. 

“Up,” Castiel says, taking Dean by the elbows to help him stand. The collar jostles and Dean’s eyes shut tight. “Are you going to eat breakfast?” 

Dean nods, mute. 

Castiel turns away to lead him to the kitchen. 

Dean watches in silence as Castiel cooks. It’s not packaged food this time, but Dean is acutely aware of every moment the chain starts to tighten between them, so it’s not like he is going to refuse to eat again. Castiel moves around the kitchen with an easy grace, a hand on Dean’s hip as he moves around him to grab different ingredients from the cabinet, a muttered curse as he spills flour all over the counter. 

“Pancakes,” Castiel says. 

He expects a response. Dean struggles for the right one and ends up just nodding. Yeah, pancakes. 

“Your favorite,” Castiel says. 

Nothing is Dean’s favorite anymore. It was stupid, the way he felt before he went into heat, Castiel bringing him food and making him smile so easy with such tiny pleasures. It was even more stupid, the way he felt during heat with Castiel’s hands on him, scent-drunk on the sweetness of him. 

Castiel stacks a plate high with food and points to the spot next to his chair. “Kneel.” 

Dean manages to make it to his knees, the collar only straining against his neck a little bit as he tries to keep his balance. “Good,” Castiel says quietly. He holds out the first bite to Dean. 

Dean is aware of the thick sugar taste on his tongue, licks it away off his lips once the fork is withdrawn, but he’s not sure he actually enjoys it. Castiel takes the next bite, and then offers a piece of bacon to Dean. Dean chews methodically, watching Castiel, waiting for any indication that he’s done something wrong, that punishment could be coming. Castiel just smiles at him. 

Plate empty, Castiel runs a fingertip through the leftover syrup and holds his hand out to Dean. Dean takes Castiel’s finger in his mouth, sucking it clean. Castiel’s eyes darken and he leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to Dean’s forehead. Dean shudders but leans into it a little all the same. 

“Up,” Castiel says, helping Dean to his feet. 

Dean watches as Castiel does the dishes, turning his back on Dean like it’s nothing to do so. Maybe it’s not. He must be able to tell how beaten down Dean feels. 

Dean has been beaten before, by masters and other dogs alike, but never has he felt it so profoundly. 

“Bath?” Castiel says. 

Dean shrugs, follows as Castiel leads him out of the kitchen, through the bedroom, and into the bathroom. Back turned to Dean again, Castiel turns a knob and water rushes out of the spigot into the tub. 

“Are you going to be good?” Castiel says, eyes on Dean’s like he can spot a lie. Dean nods. “Turn around.” 

Castiel takes the cuffs from around Dean’s wrists and then points. Dean steps over the lip of the tub, expecting the shock of cold water around his ankles, but it… doesn’t come. It’s warm, maybe even hot, and Dean jerks, the collar pulling tight. He slips a little and has to catch himself on Castiel’s shoulder, though he pulls his hand away as soon as he’s balanced again. 

“Careful,” Castiel says. “Have you had a bath before?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says. 

Once, after losing a fight, he was shoved into a stock tank and held under so long he came up vomiting water. This tub isn’t nearly big enough for something like that, but still. Dean is used to new tortures coming from surprising directions. 

“Sit down,” Castiel says. 

Dean sloshes down into the water, knees curled up to his chest, and watches as the tub fills around him. He hasn’t been warm since coming in the house, but the water is helping. Castiel kneels next to him and turns off the spigot just before the water starts overflowing. 

Castiel wraps the chain a few times around his forearm to free both hands. “Tilt your head back and close your eyes,” he says. 

Dean does as he’s told, holding his breath in expectation of  _ something _ , but all that happens is water being poured over his head. “You’re ok,” Castiel says, and he drizzles shampoo into Dean’s hair. 

Castiel hasn’t bathed him since that first time when Dean was so badly injured, and Dean has never been touched like this anyway, almost gently, but all he can do is sit tensely and wait for whatever comes next. The collar is a heavy weight around his neck. 

Castiel works the shampoo into a lather in Dean’s hair, massaging his scalp longer than Dean knows is necessary. There’s not a sound other than Castiel’s quiet breathing and the pounding of Dean’s heart. 

“Head back,” Castiel says, and he pours water over Dean’s head again, rinsing the shampoo away. 

When Dean opens his eyes, Castiel is watching him. His expression isn’t angry —a small comfort —but Dean can’t interpret what it  _ is _ . Castiel leans forward and Dean flinches, but all that happens is a soft brush of lips against his cheek. 

Castiel dips a washcloth in the water and rubs soap onto it. He starts at Dean’s neck, pushing the collar upwards to reach underneath it. “Slick,” Castiel says. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.” 

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean says, then cringes backwards so hard the collar tightens. 

Castiel runs the cloth over Dean’s shoulders, then drops it into the water to knead at the tight muscles at either side of Dean’s spine. It hurts, but isn’t rough like a punishment, and when Castiel’s hands move sideways to press into a different muscle, the constant knots in Dean’s neck are eased. Dean’s head drops forward, eyes closing.

“I don’t think I’m very good at this,” Castiel says, “but you’re so tense that I don’t think I could possibly make it worse. Does it hurt?”

Dean doesn’t reply and Castiel’s hands pause. “Slick, does it hurt?” 

Dean licks his lips, sneaks a glance sideways at Castiel. “A little.”

Castiel’s thumbs start to circle against Dean’s shoulders again, a little lighter this time. “Better?” 

“Um. Yeah.” 

Slowly, Castiel’s hands move across Dean’s shoulders and down his biceps. Dean tries to watch him but his eyes keep drifting closed, soothed by soft touch and warm water surrounding him. He may even doze a bit, but he jerks awake when Castiel picks the washcloth up and starts to rub circles on his chest. 

“Shh,” Castiel says softly. 

Castiel’s hand moves under the water, still circling over Dean’s skin, and Dean’s eyes dart back and forth between the touch and Castiel’s face. Castiel is gentle but clinical on Dean’s penis, and then he’s washing each of Dean’s thighs, down his shins and up his calves. 

“Lean forward,” Castiel says. 

Dean presses his chest into his knees and rests his chin there, just listening to the quiet splashes of water as Castiel finishes washing him. 

“Water’s getting cold,” Castiel says. “We better get you rinsed off and out of here.” 

Dean nods, not sure what he’s agreeing to, and doesn’t flinch as Castiel wrings out the rag and starts wiping soap off of Dean’s skin. 

“Get up,” Castiel says, loosening the chain from around his wrist. 

Dean stands and Castiel pulls the plug from the tub. The water starts to glug-glug out, but Castiel stays kneeling, just looking up at Dean, for a long moment. Dean looks away so he misses Castiel leaning forward until there are soft lips pressing against Dean’s wet hipbone. Dean’s breath catches. 

Castiel visibly rolls his shoulders like he’s trying to shake something off, then stands and grabs a towel off the rack. He reaches up and rubs it through Dean’s hair, then down Dean’s body, all the way down to his toes. Castiel drapes the towel over Dean’s shoulders to catch the stray drops of water coming off his hair and smiles. “How do you feel?” 

“Fine,” Dean says. 

“Out,” Castiel says. He holds his arm out for Dean to balance on but Dean ignores it. “I’ve got to work on some things, but you can come sit with me if you’d like.” 

“Ok,” Dean says, like he has a choice. 

Castiel leads him into the living room. Next to Castiel’s huge wooden desk is a large cushion. He points to it and Dean settles himself on the floor, glad to be able to stretch out his legs. Castiel opens his computer and begins frowning immediately, tapping at the keys and occasionally muttering something that is either inaudible or makes no sense to Dean anyway. Dean just watches, as happy as he’s ever been to let time pass at Castiel’s side. 


	6. DOCILE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now he’s crying in the dirt, sick and alone. Scared, too. Last time was terrifying, but at least Castiel knew what to do.

Dean is well-behaved. He eats, taking food from Castiel’s fingers without hesitation. He stands close against Castiel’s shoulder while they do dishes together. He sits quietly next to Castiel’s desk, only squirming a little bit. He’s happy to curl up in his cage at night and helps put his collar on in the morning. In fact, he’s strangely docile, even when he doesn’t have to be. He’s jumped far beyond Dean’s version of “good” and into “sedated pet.” Castiel can’t name the reason why, but he does not like it. 

And then Dean goes into heat, a week earlier than expected. 

Castiel can scent the very beginnings of it but decides to ignore it until morning. It doesn’t last that long —he wakes up at two a.m. to Dean tossing and turning in his cage. “Slick, are you ok?” 

“Cas,” Dean says, and Castiel freezes. Dean hasn’t sounded like that since his first heat, like he’s broken inside. 

“Shit,” Castiel says. He takes a deep breath and holds it as he approaches the cage, passing the collar in to Dean, and breathes through his mouth when he absolutely has to. It doesn’t help much; he can still smell nothing but honey. 

“You have to go back outside,” Castiel says, leading Dean through the yard. Castiel tries to hurry without having to pull on the collar. It doesn’t really matter, though, because by the time Castiel gets Dean chained inside the pen, Dean is plastered to his side, scenting at the side of Castiel’s neck. 

“Slick,” Castiel says, extricating himself from Dean’s grip. “I have to go back into the house. “I’ll bring you food in the morning.” 

“Don’t go,” Dean says. 

“You’ll be fine. I’ll see you later.” 

Castiel manages to stay away for an extra-long run (and extra-short shower), but it’s still early when he finds himself standing in front of the gate. Dean is trembling in the corner, and Castiel is glad he had the foresight to grab an extra blanket. 

“Slick,” he says, and Dean’s eyes open to look at him sluggishly. “You need to eat and drink.”

“Ok,” Dean says, wobbling to his feet. He smells even sweeter, and Castiel backs out of the gate in a hurry. 

Castiel grabs all of Dean’s bedding and shoves it in the washing machine, hoping to clear away some of Dean’s scent from his bedroom, and then he paces the house, not even bothering to pretend he’s working. 

Castiel is legitimately worried about Dean’s water supply when he goes back out to the pen. It’s only mid-morning but already a hundred degrees, and if Dean knew what was best for him, he should’ve already gone through the water Castiel left him first thing. 

Castiel opens the gate, drops the water inside, and shuts it again as quickly as he can. “Wait, Cas, wait.” 

Castiel manages to close the padlock but doesn’t step away. “Yes?” 

Castiel hears the chain clinking as Dean moves closer, maybe even crawling. Castiel pushes his forehead into the wood of the gate and waits. 

“Don’t go.” 

“I can’t stay, Slick.”

“But you —you said you would take care of me. Remember?” 

“Yes.” 

“So please stay. Please stay.” 

“I can’t.” 

Castiel switches the blankets into the dryer but can swear Dean’s scent is even more prevalent. He grabs a fresh jug of water but doesn’t even bother with the pretense that that’s the only reason he’s headed back outside.

“Cas,” Dean whines as Castiel approaches the gate. His voice is close and Castiel can imagine him curled up in the dirt. 

“Hello, Slick.” 

“I don’t feel good.” 

“I know you don’t.” 

“You said you would take care of me, Cas. Please?” 

“I can’t,” Castiel says. 

“But why not?” 

“You’ll hate me.” 

“I won’t, I swear,” Dean leans up against the gate so it rattles a little. 

Castiel is weak, so he turns to press his back to the fence and slide to the ground. The wood between them does nothing to filter Dean’s scent. It’s thick enough to hit Castiel’s tongue, a sudden rush of memory of what Dean tastes like, and he breathes deep without meaning to. 

“I can smell you,” Dean says. 

“I know you can. I can smell you, too.” 

“You smell good.” 

“So do you.”

“But you won’t come in?” 

“I can’t,” Castiel says. 

“I’ve been good, haven’t I? I’ve been trying.” 

“You’re wonderful,” Castiel says, closing his eyes. 

“I’ll be better.” 

“Slick,” Castiel starts, then forgets words entirely as Dean keens behind him. Castiel is hard in his jeans and he presses the heel of his hand to the base like that’s going to make any difference. Everything in him wants to  _ take _ . Everything in him is dying to get between Dean’s legs or against his neck, the places where he smells the most like himself. 

“I’m cold, it hurts.” 

Castiel closes his eyes tightly. “I know. I brought an extra blanket.” 

“It  _ hurts _ .” 

Castiel has never hated himself more, but he still says, “You have to touch yourself. It’ll help.” 

“I —but I want you to touch me —you give me baths, Cas, isn’t it the same?” 

“It’s not. Listen, I’ll stay right here, but I’m not coming in. You’ll have to touch yourself. You’ll be warmer after.” 

“I don’t know how.” 

“Slick,” Castiel says, licking his lips. “Remember when I put my fingers in you? Just like that. You liked it.” 

“I don’t want to, I just want you.” 

“Pretend I’m there. Present for me.” 

Castiel can hear Dean moving around through the fence and tries valiantly not to imagine the way he must look right now, flushed with his ass in the air, slick slipping down the inside of his thighs. 

“Close your eyes,” Castiel says. “Can you scent me?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, a frustrated moan. 

“Concentrate on that, ok? How wet are you?” Castiel isn’t sure why he’s asking because he can taste it with every breath, but he’s enough of a masochist to want to hear Dean say it. 

“Really —really wet, Cas.” 

“Ok. Ok. We don’t want to hurt you, so just one finger at first, ok?” 

Castiel knows the moment Dean has the first finger inside himself because Dean makes another noise of frustration low in his throat. “It’s not helping.” 

“You should add another finger, but only if it doesn’t hurt.” 

“You could hurt me if you wanted. I’ll still be good.” 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Castiel says. “I don’t want to hurt you. Have you put a second finger in yet?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, another groan of frustration leaving his mouth. Castiel wonders if he’s been biting at his lips, if they are swollen and red. 

“In and out,” Castiel says, “harder will feel better. Are you getting wetter?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says. 

Castiel presses his palm against his cock again, not even bothering to tell himself he’s doing anything but riding up into the small amount of friction. “Put in a third finger.” 

“Cas, it’s not —it’s not you, Cas.” 

“I know it’s not, but we’re going to help you. Do it harder.” 

Castiel doesn’t have to ask if Dean is doing it because he can  _ hear _ it, the wet noise of Dean’s fingers shoving in and out of himself, fast and rough. 

“Listen to me,” Castiel says. “There’s a place that will feel even better. I think if you twist your wrist you can reach it. A few inches in, on the same side as your stomach. If you rub there --” 

“ _ Oh _ ,” Dean gasps. 

Castiel looks upwards, like he’s praying for strength, but he’s already far gone enough that he’s undoing his jeans and pulling out his cock. 

“Cas,” Dean says, whining. He must be able to smell the arousal coming off Castiel in thick waves. “You’re hard, aren’t you? But you still don’t want me?” 

“I want you very much,” Castiel says. He tells himself he’s not going to do it, but his hand massages at the beginning of a knot on its own volition. 

“Why won’t you help me? Please.” 

“Touch your cock and you’ll come faster. Remember how I did it? Just like that.” 

That soft  _ oh _ comes out of Dean’s mouth again. 

“Does that feel good?” 

“Can I come, Cas?” 

“You don’t have to ask permission,” Castiel says. His eyes are shut tight imagining what Dean must look like right now, fucking into his hand and onto his fingers at the same time. “But yes, you can come.” 

“Will you come with me? Please?” 

Castiel leans forward just to bang his head back against the fence, immediately starting to stroke his cock. “If you want me to, I can.” 

“Want you. Wanna taste you.” 

There’s another image in Castiel’s head he’ll probably never get rid of. Dean looks so pretty kneeling at Castiel’s feet, but it’s nowhere near as pretty as he would look with his lips stretched around Castiel’s dick. “I know. I want to taste you, too.” 

Dean moans like he can imagine that, too, though Castiel’s not entirely sure Dean would know  _ what _ to imagine, if he understands that Castiel wants to spread his cheeks and lick the slick dripping from him. “Anything you want,” Dean says, the sound of his fingers obscene in his hole. “I’ll —I’ll give you anything. Just —please —I can’t --” 

Castiel bites his lip to stifle a groan. 

“I want to hear you,” Dean says. “Are you…? Are you?” 

“Yes, Dean.” 

The next time Castiel thumbs over the head of his cock, spreads pre-come downwards, he doesn’t try to stop the little moan that rises in his throat. On the other side of the fence, Dean gasps and then comes, making those noises that have been on repeat in Castiel’s head since the last time Dean was in heat. 

“Cas, Cas,” Dean says, and Castiel can hear him still fucking himself. 

_ My sweet omega _ , Castiel thinks, and he comes, too. 

For a minute Castiel just pants under the hot sun, listening to Dean’s fingers working in and out of himself. Finally Castiel says, “You can stop.” 

The next sound is Dean thumping into the dirt, breathing harshly. 

“Do you feel better?” Castiel says. 

“I don’t know,” Dean says, sounding far more miserable than anyone who just came should. “Still need you so bad.” 

“I know. But it’s going to be ok. Just a few more days.” 

Castiel pulls off his shirt to clean up what mess he can then starts to stand. “Cas, wait,” Dean whispers. 

“I have to go.” 

“Why —why don’t you want me anymore? What did I do?” 

Dean sounds like he’s going to cry, and it’s even worse than the begging, it’s even harder not to go to him. “You’ve been so good,” Castiel says. “You’re perfect, and I want you more than you could know. But I won’t hurt you again.” 

“You can if you want. I won’t be bad, I promise.” 

“Please let me go, Slick. I’ll be back soon.” 

Dean sobs softly but doesn’t say anything else. Castiel clenches his fists and backs towards the house.

Maybe it’s because Dean never received the kind of training house pets do. He’s been trying, really fucking trying, not getting mouthy even when he’s scared, but it was stupid of him to think that would be enough. Castiel had just been so  _ good _ to him lately, with his favorite meals and warm, long baths and a comfortable bed and confusing forehead kisses, that he’d convinced himself he was doing at least an ok job playing pet. 

Now he’s crying in the dirt, sick and alone. Scared, too. Last time was terrifying, but at least Castiel knew what to do. 

Dean can smell Castiel as soon as Castiel steps out of the house and into the yard. Dean has been so turned on it hurts since minutes after Castiel left, but it’s worse as soon as Castiel is in scent range, a fresh gush of slick between his thighs. 

“Cas,” Dean moans. 

“Get up and get this water,” Castiel says. 

Dean looks upwards and Castiel’s arm is reached up over the fence, a jug of water dangling from his fingertips. “Can’t,” Dean says. “You’ll have to come in here.” 

Castiel laughs quietly. “That’s not going to work. Stand up.” 

Dean somehow makes it to his feet, though he stumbles into the fence and takes a few splinters into his palm when he catches himself. Instead of the water, he grabs Castiel’s wrist. Castiel’s heart is racing and it picks up more as Dean holds onto him. Dean stands up on his tip-toes, wanting to just rub his cheek against Castiel’s hand, not even anything else, but he can’t reach.

Castiel drops the water and it rolls away. Dean is weak enough that Castiel could easily pull out of his grip, but he doesn’t. Instead he reaches his other hand up, rubbing soothingly over Dean’s white knuckles. “You’re hot. How do you feel?” 

“Bad,” Dean says. He stands tall again, wanting Castiel’s fingers in his mouth, Castiel’s taste on his tongue. 

“Worse than last time?” 

“You made it better last time.” 

“I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.” 

“Cas, please.” 

“Have you touched yourself again yet?” 

“I don’t want that.” 

With gentle hands, Castiel pulls out of Dean’s grip. Dean drops his arm and leans heavily against the fence, cold again despite the cloudless, high-summer sky. “I know,” Castiel says softly. “But you have to. I ordered you something but it won’t be here until tomorrow.” 

“Don’t go, ok? Don’t go.” 

Castiel takes a loud, shaky breath. “I’ll stay for awhile.” 

“Will you help me? Will you tell me what to do?” 

“I think you know now.” 

“But I —I just want --” Dean grabs his cock, stroking a few times, but it may make the pressure inside him even worse. “ _ Please. _ ” 

“Lay on your back,” Castiel says. “So you can scent me while I’m inside you.” 

“You’re coming in?”

“No, I — just imagine it. That was your favorite last time.” 

Dean moans, thinking about the smell of Castiel all around him, one of Castiel’s hands in his hair, the other tight around his hip. Dean tilts his head back and tries to remember the feeling of Castiel’s teeth marking him over and over. “You bit me,” Dean says, three fingers already inside himself. 

Castiel is quiet for a long time, though Dean can hear him breathing harshly, even over the sounds of mockingbirds. “Yes, I did.” 

“Because I’m yours?” 

Castiel mutters something under his breath, something that might be a curse, that Dean can’t quite make out. “Yes, I like to think so sometimes.” 

Dean moans again, riding down onto his fingers. “Cas,” he whines. 

“It’s going to be ok, Slick. I promise. Just make yourself come and it’ll be better for a little bit, ok?” 

Dean groans, frustrated and hurting far more than finding any pleasure. He shifts around on the ground, trying to find a better angle, trying to think about last time like Castiel told him to. Castiel tasted like the fruit he’s always feeding Dean, even his sweat sweeter rather than salty, and his skin was warm and smooth under Dean’s rough hands, and he whispered things into Dean’s ear that Dean never could’ve imagined anyone saying to him. He said Dean was beautiful. 

Dean manages to orgasm, but it hardly even registers as any relief. “Better?” Castiel says quietly from the other side of the fence.

“Am I going to die, Cas?” 

“What?! No, you’re not going to die. You’ll be fine in a few days.” 

“Feels like I’m going to die.” 

Castiel’s scent changes, more distressed than aroused, and Dean wants to kneel at his feet and comfort him. “I would never let that happen to you. Nothing bad is going to happen to you again,” Castiel says. 

Dean closes his eyes and pretends he might believe it. 

“Dean, I have something for you.” 

Dean is still close to the fence —Castiel can hear his harsh breathing —but he doesn’t respond.

“Dean? Are you ok?” 

“Cas,” Dean moans. 

Bringing his omega a fake knot is almost painful in its wrongness, but Castiel holds the thing over the fence anyway. “Get up and come get this. It should help.” 

Dean’s fingers brush Castiel’s as he takes the dildo. Castiel barely restrains himself from grasping at Dean’s hands. He takes a deep breath, just to torture himself, and says, “I need to go pick something up. I’ll be back soon.” 

“Please don’t go,” Dean whispers across two inches of cedar between them. 

“The fake knot will be better than your fingers, I think. And drink some water.” 

“You’ll come back?” 

“Soon.” 

Castiel rushes to his car before he changes his mind. He’s not a great driver on the best of days, but it’s far worse when every minute away from his omega hurts deep in his bones. 

Ash doesn’t ask any questions, just trades a baggie of pills for cash. Minimal chatter — Castiel probably smells desperate to get back to his mate. Even before leaving the driveway, Castiel pops a double dose and puts his car back in gear. 

He’s nauseous and itchy by the time he gets home, but it’s better than the screaming signal to  _ taketaketake.  _ ”Dean?” he calls as he approaches the fence, then immediately realizes this is the second time he’s made that mistake today. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called you that —” 

“You’re back!” Dean cuts him off, his relief evident. 

“I missed you,” Castiel says. “Do you want to come inside?” 

“Wth you?” 

“Yes, but we’re not having sex. I just want you to be more comfortable.” 

“Please, let me out.” 

Castiel opens the padlock with shaking hands, and Dean’s right there to greet him, covered in dirt and shivering and smelling so sweet. He rushes at Castiel and for a brief, panicked moment, Castiel thinks it was all a ruse. 

But Dean just fists his hands in Castiel’s shirt and presses his face to his neck, scenting with ragged inhales. “Let me take this off, sweetheart,” Castiel says, running his fingers over the hard edges of Dean’s collar. 

Dean lets Castiel push him back a step, but he doesn’t let go of Castiel’s shirt. This padlock is smaller and Castiel gets the number wrong on the first try. There’s a little  _ snick  _ when the lock opens and Castiel tosses the collar into the dirt. 

He leans down to grab the fake knot, then leads Dean back to the house by the hand. 


	7. DULLER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You should’ve killed me,” Castiel says, softly. 
> 
> “I wanted to,” Dean says. “Not anymore, I guess.”

Cas doesn’t smell quite right when he gets back from shopping, the same way leftovers are never quite as good as fresh-cooked, but it doesn’t stop Dean from aching for him. Some distant part of him realizes he’s completely untethered. That distant part of him also knows it doesn’t matter — even if he wanted to leave, he wouldn’t make it far. 

Castiel’s house is fucking freezing compared to Dean’s pen. “I’ll turn down the a/c,” Castiel says. “And I think you’ll feel better if you take a shower before getting into bed.” 

Dean nods. In this moment, he would agree to anything Castiel asks. He’s never showered — much less bathed alone — and Castiel shows him how to work the spigot and hands off a clean towel. Dean knows the shampoo and bodywash bottles by color, makes the shower fast and is hardly dry when he follows Castiel’s stale scent into the bedroom. 

Castiel is fidgeting on the edge of the bed. Dean turns to the right towards his cage, but Castiel grabs his hand to stop him. “The actual bed, if you want. You’ll be more comfortable.” 

Dean decides not to look at the teeth of this gift horse right now, just crawls into the bed. He’s a little unbelieving that Castiel sleeps in this plush heaven every night. Cas has no idea how lucky he is to be an alpha. Has no idea what it feels like to wake up to sore and stiff muscles every morning. 

Castiel pulls the blankets over Dean, then steps away to pull off his clothes. Dean stares, barely breathing, at the strength of his shoulders, the dimples at the base of his spine, his ass. He can feel a trickle of slick running over his own thigh. 

Castiel digs through a drawer and Dean mourns when he puts on a shirt and soft pants, but he forgets all about it when Castiel joins him in the bed, pulling him into his arms. Even a little off from usual, Castiel smells like a dream. 

Dean knows how wet he is, knows he should be desperate and whining, but the calmness of his alpha and the gentleness of his touch lulls Dean into a half-doze. One time Dean wakes up and Castiel is slowly running a hand up and down his back. One time he wakes up and Castiel is humming something under his breath. The next time, the sun is going down and he’s tucked against Castiel’s hip while he talks quietly on the phone, stroking his fingers through Dean’s hair. 

“I need to go,” Castiel says, ending the call without lingering to say goodbye. “How are you feeling? You slept a long time.” 

“You smell wrong,” Dean says instead of answering. 

“I picked up some medication that will let me be with you when you’re in heat without losing control.” His hand pauses in Dean’s hair. “Do I smell bad?” 

“No. Just — duller.” 

“You smell sweet,” Castiel says. “All the time, but even more when you’re in heat.” 

“I feel ok,” Dean says, pressing closer against Castiel’s thigh. 

“What I did before is wrong. An apology isn’t worth much but — I  _ am _ sorry for what I did to you.” 

Dean shuts his eyes tight and takes a shuddering breath. The marks on his neck have been healed for a long time, but he can still feel the stab of metal on his throat. 

“You should’ve killed me,” Castiel says, softly. 

“I wanted to,” Dean says. “Not anymore, I guess.” 

A moment of silence, and then Dean realizes his skin is vibrating with need, the same way it was before Castiel touched him. He whispers, “Do you want me?” 

“Dean, I took the Alphex so that’s not an option, no matter how much I want to. I brought the knot, if you would like some privacy.” 

“Would you stay anyway if I asked?” 

Castiel looks down at him, eyes bright and soft. “All right.” 

He hands Dean the toy. Dean really hates it because it’s nothing like Castiel’s cock — it’s hard and cold and unyielding — and it’s a pathetic imitation of the way it feels to have Castiel knotted inside him. 

Dean reaches under the blanket down between his legs. He’s ashamed to realize he’s staining Castiel’s sheets and his heart pounds in fear, but he decides to ask for forgiveness later. Two and then three fingers slide into him easily and he rides down on them without meaning to. Next to him, Castiel slides down until he’s laying on his side next to Dean. 

Castiel kisses the round of Dean’s shoulder, and Dean’s free hand fumbles for him, ends up on the strip of bare skin at his hip. He grabs the dildo and starts to push it in, as slow as he can tolerate, and sighs softly when it’s seated up to the knot. 

“Does that feel good?” Castiel whispers, closer somehow, his warmth all along Dean’s side. 

“Yeah,” Dean gasps. “But better if —” he doesn’t finish, but he tilts his head to bare his throat in invitation. 

Castiel hesitates, then leans up so he can rub his face on Dean’s neck. Dean whines, increasing his speed with the dildo, his hole opening to take a bit more of the knot on each stroke. “You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever met.” 

The knot finally sinks into Dean and he comes immediately with Castiel gently biting his neck. He pants in the aftermath, feeling like he’s glowing with contentment. He can scent it on Cas, too. 

Castiel gives a final rub of his cheek against Dean’s chest. Dean doesn’t know when Castiel draped his arm over him, holding him close, but it’s almost better than the orgasm. Being held close, someone nuzzling into his hair to take deep breaths of him. 

Dean shuts his eyes and almost convinces himself it’s Castiel inside him. His scent is all over the blankets and he invited Dean into his bed, even though he still rejected him for the most part. 

After he takes out the knot and sets it carefully aside, he turns to face Cas, just far apart to see each other. “You called me a man,” Dean says, quiet. 

“What else would I call you?” 

“I’m a dog.” 

Castiel flinches. “I know that’s what we’ve been told, but you’re just as much of a man as I am.” 

Dean tucks under Castiel’s chin so he won’t see his eyes prickling.

By the end of Dean’s heat, Cas is scratching sores into himself and dizzy most of the time. It’s worth it, though, to touch Dean without worrying about losing himself. 

Cas sends Dean to shower when his honey scent has turns softer, no longer so thick that Cas can taste it on the air. He’s changing the sheets for the nth time in the last few days when Dean comes back into the room. His scent spikes with fear and he whispers, “I didn’t mean to ruin your blankets. Please — please don’t make me wear the other collar again.” 

Cas steps towards him and Dean cringes into himself. “Dean, I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again, including me.” Cas touches his hands, bringing one up to his mouth to kiss his knuckles. “And doing laundry is not a problem, but I’ll wait. Help me put the green sheets on.” 

Dean follows Cas’s lead and soon enough is pulling the blankets around himself and smiling as he sinks into the pillow. “Lay down with me,” Dean says, not looking at Cas. 

Cas can see the shadow of light bruises on Dean’s neck as they lay nose to nose. He’d meant to be to be more gentle, but Dean had gasped and shuddered with pleasure every time. He’s lost the ability to deny Dean anything. 

Cas slides a hand into Dean’s hair, watching his eyes flutter closed. He wants a million things — a kiss, a bite, a lazy Sunday in bed with his omega. He wants to kiss each of Dean’s scars and and murmur things into his ear that make him blush and smile. 

“I adore you,” Cas whispers. 

Dean’s scent sours and he doesn’t say anything. 

In the morning, Cas sets up a VPN and starts searching. 

Cas shows Dean how to use the tv. Dean can’t read the descriptions and mostly just clicks at random, but he can’t imagine how anyone could  _ not  _ want to watch any of it. It’s a marvel, though the ones set in free countries makes something twist in his gut. Watching omegas be doctors or superheroes or sports stars — none of that is an option for omegas here. 

Best case scenario, you get someone like Cas, who shows Dean how to cook and doesn’t make him wear a collar anymore and curls up with him at night. Best case scenario, you’re a beloved pet. 

Worst case scenario, you spend your short life being tortured in a world where no one cares how loud you scream. 

It’s the middle of the day, and Dean is going through a set of blueprints from some of Cas’s past projects. Cas showed him what the symbols mean, and he’s starting to get pretty good at envisioning the final version of the renovated spaces. Every now and then, Cas looks up from his desk and gives Dean a smile. 

At some point Cas stands to stretch, reaching up and back so his back goes  _ pop-pop-pop  _ and shirt rides upwards so Dean can see part of his stomach. He’s not in heat, but wanting stabs at him. 

Cas must scent the change because he drops his arms and stares at Dean, nostrils flaring. 

“Do you,” Dean starts. Licks his lips. “Do you want to kiss me?” 

“Yes,” Cas says, but doesn’t move. 

“I want you to.” 

Cas shuffles a step towards Dean. They’ve never kissed before and Dean’s never been kissed at all, but the characters on Dr. Sexy seem to like it. 

Cas sits next to Dean, angled so their knees bump. Dean watches him and just waits. Cas slides his hand in his hair first, an instantly calming touch, and then leans closer to press his mouth against Dean’s. 

Dean’s heart is going to pound out of his chest. It’s just a brief, chaste kiss, but Cas pulls only a breath away and says softly, “Ok?” 

“Yeah,” Dean whispers, the word barely out before he’s closing the distance between them. 

Cas kisses Dean warm and soft, giving him space to explore, hums with pleasure when Dean runs a timid hand down his arm. Dean twists further to face him, and then somehow he ends up with his head cushioned by the arm of the couch and Cas between his legs. 

Dean isn’t so scared anymore, so the weight of Cas over him doesn’t make his blood shriek with terror inside him. The kisses feel more like  _ sharing  _ than  _ taking.  _

The scent of their arousal mingles in the air, but Cas doesn’t make any move to take it beyond kissing. Eventually Cas sits back on his heels, and Dean has a moment where he thinks he must’ve been doing it wrong. Then Cas smiles and says, “I want to take you to dinner.” 

“I can make something.” 

“No,” Cas says, resting his hands on Dean’s knees. “I want to take you  _ out _ to a restaurant.” 

Dean gapes at him. 

“We’ll have to get you your own clothes.” 

Dean looks down at the t-shirt and sweatpants loaned from Cas. He likes being covered in his alpha’s scent and he doesn’t know what it’s like to be out in the world, but he’s at least a little curious. Still, he says, “Clothes must cost a lot of money.” 

“Dean, buying you some things isn’t going to break the bank.” 

“You shouldn’t waste money on me.” 

“Darling, it’s not a hardship. Let me give you some gifts.” 

“Right now?” 

“Sure. We’ll go shopping and then eat.” 

Cas moves so Dean can stand, and not much longer they’re climbing into Cas’s car. Dean was surprised when Cas invited him to the front seat, but it’s nice to see the world pass from somewhere other than a rickety trailer. 

Dean watches fields of cactuses pass by as they bump their way down the gravel road. It takes longer than he would expect to hit pavement, but after that it’s not much further until Cas parks in front of a huge store. “I shouldn’t go in,” Dean says, palms clammy, “right? Omegas aren’t allowed.” 

Cas lays his hand over Dean’s on his thigh. “Omegas are allowed, and it would be a more successful trip if you picked things for yourself and tried them on.” 

“Ok.” 

“Maybe we’ll even find an Ironman shirt.” 

“Are you serious?” Dean says, but Cas ignores him to climb out of the car. After just a moment, Dean follows, walking fast to catch up. “Cas, are you serious?” 

“I don’t know for sure, but it’s possible.” 

Cas smiles over and takes Dean’s hand. Dean smiles back, then startles at the automatic door opening when they approach. Reluctantly, he keeps following Cas into the store, but his stomach starts to tie into knots when he realizes how little about the real world he knows. 

He never could’ve imagined this many clothes in one place. There aren’t too many people roving through the aisles, but he steps closer against Cas’s side anyway. “You’re ok,” Cas says quietly before leading him to the other side of the store. Dean keeps his eyes on the ground, a half-step behind Cas, flinching when an alpha passes by. 

Cas holds up shirts and asks Dean if he likes them but Dean just shrugs, barely looking up. “Dean,” Cas says, firmly, after about the fifth shrug. “We’re going to buy things  _ you  _ like. I don’t have an opinion either way.” 

Dean looks around them, eyes lingering on a black t-shirt, for no reason other than it looks soft. Cas takes it off the rack and holds it out to Dean, but Dean hesitates. “It’ll smell like an omega if I touch it.” 

“Dean,” Cas repeats in that same voice. “It doesn’t matter.” 

He pushes the shirt into Dean’s hands, and he was right — it’s so soft he just wants to rub it on his face. He feels better about poking through the aisles after that, especially since Cas told him he needed to pick at least ten shirts along with some pants, a jacket, and shoes. 

He didn’t really realize he and Cas have separated until the stench of another alpha hits his nose. “Hello there, pretty,” she says, circling him with a predatory gaze. Dean’s hands start to shake and his pile of clothes drops to the floor. “Little omega with no alpha to take care of you.” 

“Get away from me,” Dean says, but his voice breaks.

Her nails run down the side of his neck and he jerks away, but he’s backed up against a rack of clothes and she wraps a hand around his throat. She’s a lot smaller than him, but he’s not stupid enough to fight an alpha in public. 

And then Cas is there, stinking of rage and shoving the other alpha into the wall. Her sneer doesn’t crack until he leans close to say something into her ear. It’s too quiet for Dean to make out the words, but his tone sounds  _ murderous.  _

Cas steps back and raises an eyebrow at the other alpha. She rushes off and Cas immediately turns to Dean, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and hugging him close. “I’m so sorry.” 

Dean bares his throat to his alpha without a thought. Cas hesitates, then nuzzles into his neck, wiping away the other alpha’s touch with his scent. It helps to calm Dean’s heart, though he knows he’s covered in Cas’s scent already and that wasn’t enough to deter another alpha. 

Cas kisses Dean’s cheek, strokes his hair. “Do you want to go home?” 

Dean has never had a  _ home  _ before. “I’m ok.” 

“I won’t leave your side,” Cas says, bending to pick up the clothes Dean dropped. “I found some things I think you’ll like.” 

Dean feels better with Cas holding his hand. They pass alphas and even an omega, but none of them even look at Dean. “Here we go,” Cas says, and Dean’s mouth drops open to see racks of superhero shirts. 

“Holy shit!” Dean says, and Cas laughs. 

Dean doesn’t let go of Cas’s hand, but he drags him from rack to rack, carefully inspecting each shirt. “You could have them all,” Cas says. 

“That’s too much.” 

“That’s just the right amount for something you like, in my opinion.” 

Dean piles the new shirts on top of the pile Cas is already holding. In the end it seems like Cas buys a million things, despite his insistence that they should put some back. Dean is surprised to find out that all the cashiers are omegas. 


	8. BRAZEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some distant part of him tries to remind that he needs to be subservient, a pliant toy for his alpha. Another part of him thinks Cas likes him better when he’s not.

Cas wakes up abruptly with a stirring of heat in his groin. He puts his hand over his eyes but holds in a groan of frustration in an attempt to not disturb Dean, but it’s too late. Dean’s palm slides hot under Cas’s shirt, up his belly and he mumbles, “You ok?” 

“I need to turn on the light for a second.” 

Cas sits up to turn on the lamp, and Dean blinks up at him nervously. “Do I have to go outside again?” 

“No, of course not.” It takes a minute of digging around in the drawer of the nightstand before Cas finds the pills. He’d gotten the rut-control pills from Ash at the same time as the Alphex — neither were outright illegal, but a doctor would never prescribe them, knowing the side effects. He gulps two of them, then turns off the light and curls up with his head on Dean’s shoulder. 

“What was that?” Dean asks, quiet in the dark. 

“Something to control my rut.” 

“Is it going to make you sick like the other one?” 

“Probably.” 

Dean’s scent turns shrill with worry and Cas kisses his neck, trying to calm him. “But I — I could help you. Right?” 

“I’m not going to do that to you, Dean.” 

“But what if.” Dean takes a shaky breath. “What if I wanted to?” 

“Not like this.” Cas shuts his eyes tighter, pressing into Dean’s neck to fill his lungs with his scent. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.” 

Cas manages to fall asleep with him, but his sleep turns fitful far before dawn. He wakes up to Dean holding him tighter, humming soothingly into his hair like he’s done for Dean so many times. 

The days on Alfedeine are hell. In between bouts of fever-hot and ice-cold, Cas wonders if this is what it feels like to be in heat without a partner. Supposedly it’s to help alphas continue life without the interruption of ruts, but Cas is mostly bedbound by the end of it. He refuses the food Dean brings him and doesn’t do much better with water. 

Dean smiles wide with relief when Cas stumbles into the kitchen for the first time in days, drawn by the smell of coffee. “Hey, baby,” Dean says. He must’ve picked that up from tv. “You smell disgusting.” 

Cas snorts. “Apologies. I haven’t had a chance to freshen up yet.” 

“And that shit made your scent really weird. Like — not you,” Dean says, but steps forward to kiss Cas anyway. “So that’s double terrible.” 

“I already apologized,” Cas says, squinting in the way that always makes Dean laugh. 

“Coffee and toast, then shower,” Dean says, passing over a mug. “Can I help you? Like you used to do with me.” 

Cas isn’t in rut anymore — probably can’t even get hard with Alfedeine in his system — but he has a visceral image of rivulets of water running down Dean’s chest, droplets making his eyelashes shine, gasping as Cas bites him. Cas blinks away the fantasy and says, “That would be nice.” 

The coffee is good and Dean fusses over him too much. Looking at him across the table, Cas has an unsurprising revelation: he wishes Dean was his mate. Cas glares down at his coffee and hopes Dean can’t scent the love on him. 

They undress while the water heats, and Dean stands back in the shower to let Cas stand under the stream, rinsing away the grime of days in bed. Then Dean reaches around Cas to grab the shampoo and starts to lather his hair. 

It feels good, and even with his eyes closed, he swears he can feel the heat from Dean’s body. Dean tilts his chin back to rinse and washes the rest of him, slow and thorough. They shuffle to switch places, but Dean grabs Cas’s hand and pulls him close, nearly touching. Dean looks impossibly beautiful as they stare at each other. 

The kiss itself isn’t a surprise, but the intensity in which Dean gives it is. One of his arms wraps around Cas’s neck and the other slides to press at the small of his back and then upward. The brazen touch is new, and Cas just lets him, his own arms at his sides. 

“Cas,” Dean says, a flirty smile on his mouth. “Don’t you want to touch me?” 

“I do,” Cas says, but stays still until Dean rolls his eyes and grabs Cas’s hands to place them on his hips. 

Cas has touched Dean a million times, but never charged like this. He squeezes Dean’s hips, presses wet kisses to his neck, watches goosebumps rise on Dean’s arms when he gives a gentle bite. 

“God,” Cas says, “you’re so beautiful.” 

Dean’s hold on him tightens, and Cas feels the hard silk of Dean’s cock against his stomach. Dean’s gasping softly as Cas kisses back up his neck, down his jaw. “Can I take you to bed?” 

“Y-yeah,” Dean says on an inhale. 

Cas smiles. Dean smiles back and reaches backwards to turn off the spigot. 

They’re still mostly wet when Cas leads Dean by the hand to the bed, then gently pushes him to lay down with a hand on his chest. Dean goes down, unable to take his eyes off Cas. His alpha is gorgeous and strong, a line of dark hair leading from his stomach to his cock. 

His cock, which lays mostly soft where Dean’s aches with wanting. Dean sits up and pulls his knees to his chest before Cas can join him on the bed, so ashamed and  _ stupid.  _ So stupid for thinking Cas might want him when his brain isn’t fogged over by rut. Stupid, stupid.

“Dean,” Cas says, soft-toned like talking to a wild animal. “I thought you wanted… We’re not doing this.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says. He keeps his eyes focused on his knees. “I just thought, maybe you wanted me.” 

“Of course I want you. But I can’t hurt you, not after — what I did to you.” 

Dean picks up his head to take a quick peek at Cas’s face and then down to his dick. “Don’t lie to me.” 

“Oh.” Cas says, following Dean’s gaze downwards. “That’s because of the Alfedeine, not you. I’ll be able to get hard again in a couple of days. I thought I would do something for you instead.” 

Dean frowns, not entirely believing him. “Like what?” 

“Well,” Cas says and then, strangely, blushes. “Like suck your cock, or eat you out if you prefer.” 

“You don’t do that to an omega.” Dean knows it. There’s a lot of personal servant omegas that end up at shitty auctions once they age out of their position, and he’s heard all of their whispered tales. Choking on a knot, bruised and battered like Dean was by alpha aggression. Some of them had known pleasure with their masters, but never _that. _

Cas tilts his head to the side. He’s still standing, but not close enough to be looming. “Why not? I have a mouth and you have a cock. Certainly it’s doable.” 

Slowly, Dean straights his legs back out. His hard-on is mostly gone, but they can probably solve that. “Ok,” he says. 

Cas knees onto the bed, slow enough for Dean protest, but he doesn’t. He loses the ability to think much at all when Cas kisses him, pressing him down onto the comforter. Cas spends a long time scenting and kissing Dean’s neck, biting just hard enough for Dean to feel it and then moving on. Dean lets himself imagine that Cas is seeking the best place for a mating bite. 

Cas’s hand slides, barely touching, down Dean’s stomach as he kisses the hollow where Dean’s collarbones meet. Dean’s embarrassed at how he gasps and arches his hips when Cas wraps his fingers around Dean’s cock. The first few strokes sizzle under his skin, better than he expected, and  _ unimaginable  _ when Cas tugs at a nipple with his teeth. 

“Cas,” Dean moans, one hand landing in Cas’s hair. Some distant part of him tries to remind that he needs to be subservient, a pliant toy for his alpha. Another part of him thinks Cas likes him better when he’s not. 

Cas kisses just below Dean’s bellybutton. He keeps kissing downward, and the scent of Dean’s slick is cloying in the air. He can see Cas flaring his nostrils to take him in, his breath ghosting the head of his cock. 

“Tell me if there’s anything you don’t like,” Cas says, and Dean nods. 

Cas swipes his tongue over the tip and Dean’s hand clenches in his hair. Cas hums with pleasure — he’s not aroused like Dean is, but there is something mingling with Dean’s scent in the air — and takes the head of Dean’s cock into his mouth. 

“Oh god,” Dean whispers. He’s used his hand before, on the rare occasion that he can get some privacy in his pen, but it wasn’t hot. Wasn’t wet, wasn’t anything like the slow stroke of a tongue. 

Cas rises up, his mouth coming off Dean’s cock with a wet pop. Dean tells himself not to be disappointed that it’s over, because he already has so many moments to think about later. He lets out a slow breath and says shakily, “Thank you.” 

“I wasn’t done. I just wanted to check if you’re liking it so far.” 

“Jesus, are you kidding?” 

“That’s what I thought,” Cas says with a laugh that cuts off when he takes Dean’s cock in his mouth again. 

Dean’s hips hitch upward without meaning to and he feels the head of his cock push up again the roof of Cas’s mouth. “Sorry — sorry —” 

Cas fumbles for Dean’s hand and squeezes reassurance, but doesn’t stop the steady rhythm of enveloping Dean in his mouth. 

Dean moans and whimpers and says Cas’s name and his orgasm is a riptide, water in his lungs. 

And he did it in Cas’s mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean scrambles to say. “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry —” 

Cas pulls off his softening cock licking his lips and smiling. “I could do that to you all day,” he says, leaning up to kiss Dean. 

The kiss is slow but deep, the sweet taste of Dean on Cas’s tongue. Cas cradles his jaw with the hand that’s not still in Dean’s, murmuring between kisses about how  _ beautiful  _ and  _ perfect  _ Dean is, murmuring  _ my omega.  _

Eventually he lays next to Dean, facing him. Dean glances over and then looks at the ceiling again. “I haven’t done that in awhile,” Cas says. “Did you like it?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “It was — incredible.” 

Cas laughs, kisses his knuckles. “I’m glad. I hoped it would be.” 

“I’m sorry I came in your mouth.” 

“I’m not,” Cas says. Dean looks over and he’s blushing, but his voice is sure. 

“Ok. Cool.” 

There’s something about the way Cas smiles at him lately. Gentle, adoring. And a little sad, but Dean can’t figure out why. 

“We should walk down to the creek today,” Cas says. 

It’s on the far end of the property, but Dean’s favorite place. He’s even walked there himself a couple times when Cas left the house, but he’s pretty sure Cas doesn’t know that. 

“We could take a picnic?” 

Cas kisses the round of Dean’s shoulder and says, “Excellent idea.” 


	9. SHELTER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weight of the hammer feels good in his hands. He stalks up to the fence and swings. The first one isn’t quite hard enough and the wood just cracks, but the second hit sends wood flying. He tears down the fence until he’s sweaty and shaking, then keeps going all the way up until dusk.

Over the dishes, Cas says, “I didn’t want to say anything unless it didn’t work, but — I’ve been in contact with a woman who runs a shelter a couple hours west, and I was able to get you a spot.” 

“Huh?” 

“A shelter,” Cas says, not looking up from the plate he’s drying. “She has a large property where she takes in omegas. Medical care, education. Freedom.” 

Dean turns to face Cas, soap dripping from his hands to the floor and heart galloping. “Without you.” 

“Yes.” 

Dean can’t speak. He flashes through all the owners he’s had before, all the hatred and cruelty. He felt nothing but loathing for those alphas, but it doesn’t really feel like he’s Cas’s slave anymore. Apparently it still feels like that to Cas, a property to be tossed away. 

“What did I do wrong?” Dean says, proud his voice comes out steady. 

Cas frowns. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“Then why are you getting rid of me? I can eat less. I can stay outside, or in the cage.” Dean’s hands start to shake. “I’ll stop bothering you all the time. Whatever you want.” 

“Dean,” Cas says. He cradles Dean’s face in his hands and kisses him, gently. “I adore you, so I have to do what’s best for you.” 

Dean presses his forehead against Cas’s, eyes closed tight to ward off the prickling tears. “Please, Cas,” he whispers. “I don’t want to fight again.” 

Cas jerks backwards, but he grabs Dean’s wet hands and weaves their fingers together. “A  _ shelter,  _ Dean. You’ll never belong to anyone again.” 

Dean thinks this is what a broken heart feels like. 

Still, he packs up his belongings — there’s more than he expected — and the next week a flame-haired alpha pulls into the driveway in a car too small to fit him in the trunk and no trailer. It’s probably for the best that she doesn’t try to touch him, but her smile is like a warm embrace. 

“I’m Charlie,” she says. “Mucho gusto.” 

Her gaze hardens when she looks at Cas, but she still shakes his hand. The two of them sign and trade forms on the top of Charlie’s car while Dean stands away from them, fidgeting. He could run. He wouldn’t make it anywhere, but Charlie has a gun on her hip and maybe she would shoot him. 

The night before, he and Cas had kissed forever before bed, and then Dean caught the flash of a tear on his face before Cas could rub it away. Dean didn’t understand but didn’t ask. 

He doesn’t run, and the paper exchange is finished. Cas walks to him, almost timidly, and then wraps his arms around Dean’s shoulders and holds him close, face pressed into his neck. “I know I’m a bad person,” Cas says, muffled. “I know I don’t deserve to be loved. But god, I’m going to miss you.”

Dean wants to cry again, even more when Cas reluctantly lets go of him. Charlie’s eyes are sharp on Cas still, her hand resting on her holster, already open. 

Dean’s bag goes in the back seat of Charlie’s car, he in the front. Charlie chatters to him about the shelter, but he just watches the cactuses pass. 

Cas stares at the dust tossed up by Charlie’s car for a long time. He feels exhausted to his bones, he feels like he wants to destroy something. He glances at the fence surrounding the pen he made Dean live in and hates himself. 

He remembers the sledgehammer in the corner of the garage, among a jumble of tools Dean kept threatening to organize. 

_ Dean.  _

Cas doesn’t have any pictures of him other than the one on his registration, but he can still see his smile vividly. He knows that won’t last long. 

The weight of the hammer feels good in his hands. He stalks up to the fence and swings. The first one isn’t quite hard enough and the wood just cracks, but the second hit sends wood flying. He tears down the fence until he’s sweaty and shaking, then keeps going all the way up until dusk. 

In the shower he takes stock, and most of his muscles ache and scream. It feels like self-flagellation. He sends an email to cancel his meetings the next day so he can destroy the rest of the pen instead and then climbs into their bed. He can press his nose into their pillows and imagine Dean just got up to start coffee. He dozes, but doesn’t really sleep, worrying and longing. 

The fence and shed come down and leave a pile of rubble. Next comes the concrete-sturdy pole he chained Dean too. When there’s nothing left, Cas sits on the grass and cries. 


	10. SUNRISE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can vividly imagine him and his omega in their own little home in the foothills. Where Dean will be _free._

It’s been months and months and months, and Cas has never been so alone. He’s embarrassed to admit, even to himself, that he stole one of Dean’s shirts and hid it in the back of the closet. It hasn’t smelled like Dean for a long time, but it’s still a comfort he takes advantage of often.

He smells the alpha long before there’s a knock on the door. He doesn’t recognize the scent, so it’s an unexpected stranger — standing to the side so they can’t be seen out of the peephole. 

Cas opens the door, and takes a step back in shock. “Dean?” he says, thinking the man in front of him may be a mirage. He looks  _ good,  _ strong and healthy and taller in newfound confidence. And an alpha.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, giving him a crooked smile. “The scent is fake.” 

“What are you doing here?” 

Dean deflates a little, looking down at his scuffed boots. “I can go.” 

“No, I just — are you here to kill me?” 

“What? Of course not.” Dean looks back up, his eyes spring green in the afternoon light. “I graduated, I guess, so I’m headed west soon. Had to see you first.” He glances over his shoulder and says, “The pen is gone.” 

“I never should’ve put it up.” 

“Can I come in?” 

“Yes, please,” Cas says, and steps back for Dean to pass, feeling like he’s in a dream. 

“You look like shit, by the way,” Dean says as he drops onto the couch. 

Cas snorts and sits with as much space between them as possible. “Thanks, I appreciate it.” 

Dean grins. Cas isn’t sure he ever saw a smile this easy and true from him before and he’s enamoured, unable to do anything but smile back. 

“So, uh, where are you keepin’ your new omega?” Dean asks. Cas can tell he’s only pretending the answer doesn’t matter to him. 

“There’s no omega.” 

Dean pins Cas with a stare for long moments. “I guess it was stupid to think you’d be happy to see me.” 

“Dean I’m — speechless. When I sent you with Charlie, I was sure I’d never see you again.” 

“Here I am.” 

“Here you are.” Cas clenches his hands on one of the couch cushions. “I think about you all the time.” 

“Yeah. Me too,” Dean says, reaching over to squeeze Cas’s knee. “I’m going to the bathroom real quick.” 

Cas stares at Dean until he disappears down the hall. He’s still shellshocked, hardly able to form thoughts. Dean is even more beautiful than the last time Cas saw him and Cas’s nostrils flare when Dean’s true scent starts to waft from the bathroom. 

Dean comes back to the living room with his shirt rumpled. There’s still the faintest stink of the fake scent, but it’s mostly him now, sweet like honey. Dean gives Cas an unreadable look and then straddles his lap. 

Cas’s eyes widen and his mouth goes dry, but he doesn’t move, even as Dean brushes his fingertips along the line of his jaw. Dean looks down at him and asks, “Do you want to kiss me?” 

Cas nods, almost imperceptibly. Dean smiles in response and tilts Cas’s chin up to kiss him, the kind of slow and intimate kiss Cas has missed desperately. 

Cas has a sharp memory of all the places in the house they’ve kissed, especially when Dean takes his hand and puts it on his hip, denim soft under his fingers. Dean bares his throat and Cas is drawn in by his scent, humming in pleasure as he breathes him in. He contains the urge to bite, but he doesn’t manage to control his mouth entirely and whispers, “I love you.” 

Dean jerks back to look at him, scent brightening with joy. Despite Dean’s scent, Cas’s heart grows cold as Dean looks down, searching his eyes. Finally, Dean says, “Come with me.” 

“With you…?” 

“To Colorado.” 

Cas’s mouth opens, then closes. He can vividly imagine him and his omega in their own little home in the foothills. Where Dean will be  _ free.  _ “Yes.” He laughs a little, incredulous, and repeats, “Yes. I’ll have to sell this house, and find work, and — it doesn’t matter. I want to be your alpha.” 

Dean’s smile is big and wide to match his scent. “I’m leaving on Wednesday. I have a phone now so we can talk.” 

Cas drops his forehead on Dean’s shoulder. “I can’t believe you’re here.” 

Dean hugs him close and then says, quietly, “You’re not a bad person. I thought that’s what I deserved for being an omega and so did you, but we’re different now.” 

“I swear to you,” Cas says, “I’ll never hurt you again.” 

Cas sits up straight again and pulls Dean down into a long, intense kiss, and then another and another, until Dean is gasping and melting into Cas’s touch. 

“Jesus, I want you to bite me, but Charlie will freak out.” 

“Soon,” Cas says. 

Dean gives him that beautiful smile again, and Cas’s fantasies about the future sharpen: a log cabin in a valley far outside the city limits. Mountains in the west and snow in the winter. Dean so soft sleeping in their bed. Trading bites, sitting on the porch drinking coffee at sunrise, calling him  _ mate.  _

“I love you,” Cas repeats. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, ducking his head down. “Me too.” 

**Author's Note:**

> [reallyelegantsharkfish](http://reallyelegantsharkfish.tumblr.com) on tumblr
> 
> i'm bad at answering comments but every single one is so precious to me and keeps me going on the rough days! <3 thank you for being here!


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